


There is No Downtime

by tilda



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Coming Out, Future Fic, M/M, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 20:52:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tilda/pseuds/tilda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick’s thirty and One Direction have split. It should be the end of the world, but it's not.</p><p>   <i>Nick likes how it’s ended up between him and Harry. They’re still friends, or at least not enemies. They text and tweet and issue birthday invites that neither has any intention of accepting …The invite this year is also purely symbolic – the days when Harry Styles would cross time zones for a couple of hours with Nick Grimshaw are long gone – but things are definitely better. </i></p><p><a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1093187">Podfic</a> by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/greedy_dancer/pseuds/greedy_dancer">greedy_dancer</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _How often do [you] see each other?_  
>  “He’s really busy. Whenever, really. I see him at work.”  
>  _So what do [you] do together in [your] downtime?_  
>  “There is no downtime.”  
> His disarming smile gets bigger and the subject of Harry seems closed.
> 
>    
> Fabulous Mag, 23 Sep 2012.
> 
>  **ETA 3rd July 2014.** A note on time. This fic is set in 2014. When I started writing (in September 2012), 2014 was very much in the future. I couldn’t imagine 1D still being together (we didn’t know about their current album contract, and there was no stadium tour), or me still being in the fandom. And here we are with 1D an unstoppable juggernaut, and my heart still exploding into painful shards every time Nick gets a text from Harry on the Breakfast show. Just think of _There Is No Downtime_ as AU future fic, and laugh at your fandom elders with their crazy ideas of 1D breaking up at some point.
> 
> Also, the fic has had some minor edits since it was first posted, and if you listen to Greedy Dancer's podfic, you might find some differences between the version she recorded and the one here.

_August 2014_

Nick settles into the corner of the cab, still half-asleep, his hands shoved in his pockets. The cabbie’s got some pirate station on and whatever’s playing is a mess of snowed-out drum-and-bass with a woman’s shrill voice cutting over the top. It sounds like something Nihal might play, and Nick’d probably like it if he could hear it through the interference. Maybe not before 6am though. 

‘Mate,’ he calls. ‘Can you stick Radio 1 on?’

The cabbie looks at him impassively in the rearview before reaching over to change the radio station without saying a word. Nick can’t tell if it’s because he doesn’t give a toss or because he’s mortally offended. He shrugs to himself and watches London slide by outside the window. It’s darker than this time last week, though since he’s become a sunrise geek, as far as he’s concerned it’s been all downhill since mid-June. At least he’s happier than he was this time last year. Then, the slow slide towards winter had been bleak.

He lets Dev’s voice float over him and tries to remember what they’ve got planned for today’s show.

~

Matt’s already in the studio when Nick arrives.

‘Where’s my pressies then?’ he says, pulling off his hoody and jacket and draping them over the back of the chair.

‘What pressies,’ says Matt without looking up from whatever he’s typing.

‘I know there’s presents. Even if it’s just a quiz or summat.’

Matt looks up.

‘Who told you?’

‘It is! It’s a quiz. You lot are so predictable. What else?’

‘What else? You’re thirty not thirteen.’ 

‘Do we have to go through this charade? I know there’s other stuff.’

‘Yes, we have to go through this charade,’ says Matt. ‘That is how birthdays work. You get presents. They are _a surprise_.’ 

‘God. So annoying,’ Nick says, flopping into his chair, as Matt gets up from his. ‘Get me coffee.’ 

‘Maybe,’ says Matt, going out the door. 

He will, Nick’s not worried. He leans over the desk to snag Matt’s show-plan. What’s on today? A bit of birthday stuff – a quiz, guess-the-birthday-wellwisher – but not too much. Ben C had been iffy about Nick making a big deal of his 30th. He didn’t want to remind younger listeners exactly how old his broadcasters were, but they’d talked him down in the end. No guests today, just some other R1 staff popping in for a chat. Plus a special birthday edition of the Nickstape – they’d swapped it to the Thursday for the occasion – which is basically an excuse for a dance and a champagne cocktail. Sometimes he wonders how he can think of giving this up.

~

They go to the pub after the show (Nick allows himself to go a bit Chris Evans every now and then, as long as he’s home and in bed by a reasonable hour) and by the time they get to Lemonia for lunch everyone’s already halfway to wasted. They’re joined by Pix and Gels and the usual suspects. 

His present from Matt and the rest turns out to be a Radio 2 Welcome Pack consisting of slippers, a really amazingly ugly toupee (which Nick immediately puts on) and a Clannad CD. 

‘Where do you think they’d put me in the schedule?’ muses Nick. ‘Back to night time?’

‘You could do a hip-hop show for pensioners,’ suggests Aimee.

Ian looks suddenly inspired. 

‘Hip HOAP,’ he says dreamily, and Nick’s smile widens.

‘Brilliant! What do you think Finchy? Think they’d go for it?’ 

‘I’m sure it’s the scheduling change they never knew they needed,’ Matt says. ‘I’ll just ring Bob at Radio 2 now.’

‘Yay,’ Nick says and raises his arms, bracelets jingling, nearly dislodging the toupee.

An unnecessary number of pictures are tweeted to the general public and to absentees (‘We don’t need you, Chung’) and Nick’s crows’ feet are assessed. 

‘Eagles talons,’ concludes Aimee. 

‘The actual size of eagles’ talons,’ agrees Henry.

Matt comes in from the other side.

‘Oh, no, I would say…’ He peers at the corners of Nick’s eyes. ‘More like the Nile delta.’

‘Bastards,’ says Nick. ‘They’re _laughter_ lines anyway. These lines are a sign of my natural joy.’

When the food starts soaking up some of the booze they settle down and stop annoying the piss out of the other punters quite so much. They may even have one or two sensible conversations – about Gels’ promotion, about the 1D split, about – oh yes – _that_ interview with young Harold in _The Guardian_ the other week. 

‘So brave.’

‘Not that brave. They’ve split up. It’d’ve been even more amazing if he’d done it when they were still touring.’

‘Oh please, give the kid a break.’

‘I’m just saying, it might have had more impact if he’d done it when 1D were still together, still apparently the paragons of straight masculinity.’ 

‘Ugh, stop practising for being a twat on _Newsnight_ , Matt,’ says Gillian.

‘I think it’s wonderful,’ says Nick. ‘I’m really pleased for him.’ 

And his is apparently the last word on the subject because they start talking about something else. Marcus pops by with a card and a kiss and perches on the edge of a hastily brought-over chair. He doesn’t stay long. ‘Take care,’ they say to each other when he goes, and Nick thinks he doesn’t deserve so sweet an ex considering what an arse he’d been towards the end. 

Then they all go back to his for cake (it had arrived that morning from Alexa and was in the shape of a number 1 – ‘for your age, of course’) and more booze, or tea depending on previous state of drunkenness. Nick has both just to be sure. They spill out into the garden and the soundsystem is maybe too loud, but fuck it, Nick’s a good neighbour most of the year, and it’s the middle of the day and it’s my BIRTHDAY, he just about manages to stop himself announcing every half hour (unlike in previous years. Wow, he is maturing.) 

Later, he leans back on the bench under the kitchen window, feeling rough brick against his back and watches Aimee and Henry dancing slowly in the sun, bumping hips and giggling, sloshing their drinks a bit. Nick remembers another time, another party in the garden when Harry had waltzed him around, knocking drinks over and making everybody cheer. He closes his eyes into the sun.

Miraculously, everybody drifts off by about 8-ish. His proper party’s on Saturday, because you can’t not celebrate a big-zero-birthday in style, but his days of school night piss-ups are over – he just can’t do them anymore. He settles down in front of the TV with the remote in one hand and a bottle of Pellegrino on the coffee-table. He’s read somewhere that sparkling water’s good for the skin. It’s probably rubbish, but it got stuck in his head, so here he is. There’ll be time for getting off his head on Saturday. 

Apparently he falls asleep on the sofa because he’s woken around 11pm by his phone gently farting against the table. He fumbles for it, disoriented, thinking it’s his alarm then realising it’s not. The TV is on and blinding in the darkness. He finds the remote and leans over to switch on the lamp. His brain comes back to him a little. He switches the telly off and reads the message. 

_Not sure if this is late or not. Still crap at time zones. Sorry if it is. Happy b’day if not. You’re officially old now._  
H  
x 

Nick texts back, thumbs not working properly, _Just made it by an hour, Styles. And I prefer ‘late youth’, ta very much._

He runs a hand through his hair. He hasn’t seen Harry in months, and that had just been a brief meeting at some industry do. Sees him in the paper more often, though the other week had been weird, mainly because _the Guardian_ was not the kind of paper Harry Styles usually appeared in. 

Nick had been in the newsagents for a sneaky ten Marlboro when the paper’s masthead had caught his eye. There was an inset picture of Harry (with his new hair) and the headline _Another Direction_ with, in smaller print underneath, _Alexis Petridis talks to Harry Styles about new music and the curse of the boyband._ Normally, he’d have just gone home and found the interview online, but for some reason Nick had had the urge to buy the paper, to have the weekend edition sit on his kitchen table while he made coffee. There had been a tasteful photo-shoot (‘Harry wears Prada jacket, £955’), and Alexis liked Harry (because who the hell didn’t?) and the interview had been insightful and kind. And then this paragraph happened.

>   
> _One Direction mania_ , wrote Alexis, _was perhaps the first time mainstream media culture in the West was confronted with the idea that teenage girls might like a bit of boy-on-boy action as much as their straight male friends like girl-on-girl. From there, the leap to having an out, gay member of a boyband didn't seem so great. Had Harry ever been tempted to come out at the time?_  
> 

Nick had been lying on the sofa at this point, and had dropped the magazine onto his chest and closed his eyes. Alexis wasn’t a dick, so they must have agreed to talk about it beforehand. After a minute collecting himself he picked the magazine back up and read on.

> _‘Sometimes, yeah,’ Harry says frankly. ‘But… I know it seemed like less of a big deal then, than it was for Stephen Gately or that guy from Nsync, it was still something that would affect others, not just me. When you're in a band like that, you're responsible for way more people than just yourself. Your bandmates, yeah, but everyone around you who works for and with you. And that's not even counting the fans. So. It was never just my choice.'_

Very quietly, in a relatively low circulation newspaper (though yes, it was huge online), Harry Styles had come out, or at least revealed he batted for both sides. So yeah. Weird was one word for it. 

Nick gets up and shambles through to the bathroom and peers into the mirror. Eagles’ talons. Fuckers. He splashes his face with water and picks up his toothbrush, the hum of it lulling him as he starts to brush. He’s pleased with how it’s ended up between him and Harry. They’re still friends, or at least not enemies. They text and tweet, and issue birthday invites that neither has any intention of accepting. 

He’d been glad of that last year. If Harry had turned up then, only a few months after that last conversation in Nick’s flat, Nick would have been a wreck by the end of the night, all maudlin and waily on his friends’ shoulders. Luckily for his friends, Harry didn’t appear.

Nick spits into the sink and rinses. 

And it had started him on the road up. Missing Harry went from being a constant ache, to a dull background throb, to a pang every now and then. Harry went from being a permanent resident in his brain, to the occasional visitor. The invite this year is also purely symbolic – the days when Harry Styles would cross time zones for a couple of hours with Nick Grimshaw are long gone – but things are definitely better. 

~

It’s 3pm on Saturday and Nick’s realising that having a thirtieth birthday party is actual _work_. Henry (Artistic Director) and Pix (Social Affairs) have been brilliant, but Nick as Entertainments Officer has been frankly crap. The DJ is still in Ibiza and the band’s broken down on the motorway from Glasgow and they’ve got a soundcheck at 5pm. Nick’s on the phone to their drummer who’s trying to make himself heard above the sound of the M40. 

‘When are the AA supposed to be getting there?’

‘They were supposed to be here half an hour ago!’

‘Can you hitch a lift?’ says Nick, only half-joking.

‘What about our equipment?’

‘Just kidding – sort of. Listen. Leave it with me. I’ll try and light a fire under the AA’s arses and let you know what’s going on.’

They’re not even signed yet, and don’t have any money – it’s his AA contract they’re using – but Nick adores them and wants them to play his party. Mainly because they’ll be great, but also because it’ll be good exposure for them. 

‘Thanks, Grimmy. You’ve been brilliant. Thanks for… not giving up on us.’

‘Shut up. Course not. See you tonight!’

He spends the next twenty minutes in phone-tree hell, finally getting through to an unbelievably chirpy and helpful AA advisor. Apparently the breakdown man broke down. Who knew that could happen? Sorted, but jesus, Nick’s ready for a drink already, but there’s another crisis to sort. The DJ’s not here and whereas the band are on later, the DJ has to be there from the off. Nick can tell there’s a possibility he’s going to have to do the first hour, which is annoying. He’s the host. He’s got to be there to charm the early arrivals and make them all feel comfortable. Bloody hell. Manny owes him for this, for sure. 

He ends up with a stream of people popping in and out of the DJ booth to bring him drinks and kiss him hello and chat and it’s loads of fun. Better than standing about worrying about who’s not going to turn up. When Manny finally arrives, he’s brought a magnum of Veuve C. and is so pathetically apologetic Nick forgives everything and hugs him to get him to stop him babbling sorries. Once they’ve got him settled in, he says, ‘Oh, hey, that mate of yours came in with me.’ 

‘It’s my party,’ Nick laughs. ‘They’re all my mates.’

‘No,’ says Manny. ‘Your _mate_ ,’ and nods over to the entrance. 

Nick had been vaguely aware of a stir a few minutes earlier and assumed it was Mossy arriving. She always had that effect, like an alien ship landing or something. Whoever’s just arrived is definitely surrounded though, and Nick has a hard time catching sight of them, and when he does, it takes a beat to recognise them. 

Him. 

Nick knew he’d cut his hair (Christ, who in the western world didn’t? It probably made the front page of _The Financial Times_ ). But for long seconds he only sees a handsome young man in the crowd. And then the handsome young man looks up from the cluster around him (all girls, natch), sees Nick, and smiles.

That fucking smile. 

And Nick murmurs to himself, ‘Henry Stars.’


	2. Chapter 2

_September 2011_

‘Be nice to everyone,’ he’d pronounced like the showbiz elder he wasn’t. ‘You don’t know who you’ll meet on the way back down.’

‘Yeah,’ James added. ‘And don’t sleep with strippers.’

The lads giggled.

‘Chance’d be a fine thing,’ said the Irish one.

‘Not that we, you know, see women as objects. Or anything,’ said Curly, managing to give the impression that this was something he was expected to say, that it was bullshit, and that he wholeheartedly believed in it, all at the same time. Neat trick. 

‘Yeah. Strippers have feelings too,’ said the Scamp.

‘I didn’t mean that, lads, jeez’, said Irish. ‘I just meant...’

‘Keeping you on a short leash are they,’ said James nodding over at their minders. 

‘God yeah.’

‘We just want to talk and have a bit of fun,’ said Boring. ‘It’s not like we’re gonna do anything else.’

‘’Cause you’re nice boys,’ put in Nick.

‘Totally,’ said the Irish one with a massive shit-eating grin. He somehow managed to look like he was still wearing braces. They all looked fifteen.

‘Cross our hearts,’ said the Scamp.

‘Nah. We want a shag,’ this from the Asian one, who Nick had down as shy. James let out a bark of laughter, looking as surprised as Nick felt.

It was that GQ dinner. He’d known that apart from Niall they were all northerners, but it turned out that Harry was a Manchester boy, or near as didn’t matter, and they ended up having an ages-long chat about Afflecks and the Northern Quarter, comparing awful tat they’d bought, some of which Harry still owned, and which Nick felt it was his duty to take the piss out of him for (while quietly freaking out because he’d suddenly been reminded of Harry’s age). When they looked up again, Nick felt like he did when he came out of the pictures sometimes – that he’d gone in in daylight and come out at night, and the whole world had changed while he’d been inside. They were the only ones left at the table – everyone else had gone off to gawk at celebs and get their picture taken. They had looked at each other and smiled awkwardly.

~

They’d swapped numbers and done a lot of texting, then shopping and lunches. Then Nick had brought Harry out with the gang a couple of times, and he’d thought they were brilliant, and they’d thought he was pretty all right too. And Nick had genuinely thought Harry was straight for the longest time. His friends thought it was hilarious, watching Harry flirt with him, and him being an oblivious dickhead. Harry flirted with everyone, Nick thought. It didn't mean anything. It took one to know one, after all.

Then they were larking about at Nick’s one day, fighting over the remote.

‘It’s my house!’ Nick yelled, trying to wrestle it off Harry.

‘I’m the guest! I get to choose!’ said Harry, holding it away from him because they were both eight, apparently. 

And Nick found himself lying over Harry as he strained to reach the remote, and their mouths were _that_ close, and their giggles faded and the silence went on a touch too long. 

‘Ooh. Are we having a moment, Styles? ’ Nick said. ‘Are we Hugh Grant and Martine McCutcheon in _Love, Actually_?’

And Harry, lying there holding the remote above his head, looked at Nick levelly.

‘If you like,’ he said.

And Nick’s mouth was suddenly dry like the desert.

Neither of them moved for a few seconds, until Harry raised his chin slightly, bringing their mouths ever so slightly closer. Nick might have been an oblivious dickhead but he wasn’t stupid. Carefully, ever so carefully, he lowered his head ( _and all the way down his eyes searched Harry’s for any sign of a panicky ‘Joking!’ or ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ and saw nothing except challenge and impatience_ ) and placed his mouth slowly against Harry’s. He tried to keep his eyes open but they fluttered shut against his will. The kiss was very still and only lasted a few seconds. 

‘Really?’ Nick said, pulling away a little.

And Harry said ‘Yeah, really.’ Then he heard a gentle thump (the remote, he thought distantly) and felt Harry’s arms come up around him, and things … escalated. 

‘You know, I thought you were straight,’ he’d said at one point, Harry’s ankles hooked around his and a firm grip on him through the open zip of his jeans.

‘Only believe half of everything you read in the papers,’ Harry murmured against Nick’s mouth, and squeezed. Nick’s eyes sank shut and he forgot what newspapers even were.

 

_Spring 2012_

Harry was busy, which Nick loved. They saw each other about once a week or a fortnight and it was fun for about the first few months. But something weird started happening to Nick. 

‘When are you free next?’

‘Tonight.’

‘Shit, I’m DJ-ing this fashion gig in Vauxhall. What about tomorrow?’

‘Can’t. Doing promo. Not free again till next Friday.’

That was a week away. He’d last seen Harry four days before. Before he could even think about it, he’d said, ‘Come with, tonight. Come help me DJ.’ They both knew Nick needed no such help.

There was a smallish pause.

‘Won’t I get in your way?’

‘Nah. You’re a big boy. You can look after yourself.’

And Nick knew he could. He’d been out enough with Harry to know he could handle himself. It might be helpful for Harry too, he thought brightly to himself. He might... make some contacts. Lame, Grimshaw, very lame. One Direction were skyrocketing and Harry didn’t need any contacts. 

It was a good night. It wasn’t like a club gig where you’re getting the dancefloor to go off, it was more about making an atmosphere for people to feel cool in. Still, it was always fun at the end of the night to see some people dancing by accident, looking around themselves as if they didn’t know quite how that had happened, and then just giving themselves up to it. Sneaky job done, he thought.

And he watched Harry, watched a scenario that was becoming familiar to him. He watched how all the party kids looked at Harry at first, how they raised a sceptical eyebrow at that one off of the X-Factor, and turned away, trying to blank him out of their conversations. But Harry would disarm them with a smile and a joke, surprise them by knowing the bands or labels they were talking about, charm them by being down-to-earth and flirty and by the end of the night those dead-eyed, jaded Londoners were all love-hearts and stars, like an unusually fashion 1D audience. Nick got that feeling he’d had once or twice before, that this was something _he’d_ done, that Harry was something Nick had found and was showing to the world, like the music he played. That Harry was his.

At one point Harry came to visit him at the decks – jostling him, touching as much as they thought they could get away with – and they were standing next to each other, chatting to someone else (had it been Florence? Nick couldn’t remember) and Nick suddenly had the urge to move his hand across the tiny amount of space that separated it from Harry’s and slide their fingers together. He’d never understood couples who held hands, he’d never seen the point, but at that moment he wanted to hold Harry’s hand. That was when he thought he might be losing his marbles.

~

Early evening, the sun sinking. People coming home from work, kids doing homework or having their tea, Deal or No Deal on the telly. Nick had always thought of it as the most boring time of day. Harry’s fingertip was tracing a slow, curling path down his spine. He was lying on his front in Harry’s bed and had lost track of how much sex they’d had. After the shower this morning, when they realised the zoo would still be there another time and they’d rather suck each other off lazily on the rumpled sheets, still damp from the shower. They’d ended up staying there till lunchtime. Then they’d made sandwiches and played rude-word Scrabble on the bed in their pants, the duvet on the floor somewhere. It had degenerated into rude-insult Scrabble, then badly spelled rude-insult Scrabble (‘A R S H O L. No way. You are not having that.’) and had ended up with Nick pushing an uncontrollably laughing ( _winning, bastard_ ) Harry down onto the bed, forgotten letter-tiles getting stuck to his bare arse, and fucking him stupid against the headboard. Then they’d napped.

And now Harry’s finger was drawing a line down Nick’s arse cheek – it tickled – before pinching him in the crease at the top of his thigh. It sent a little current of electricity to Nick’s cock, making it stir. He shifted, puffing a little breath, a tiny word of nothing, through his nose. Harry seemed to disappear and Nick drifted off again, until he heard a crinkle followed by a soft tearing noise. More crinkling followed by a plastic click and a squelching noise. 

Nick hadn’t moved, but his brain was fully awake now. 

‘Styles,’ he said warningly. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Nothing. Shh.’

But he was a liar because Nick felt the bed dip suddenly and a second later a very naked, very hard Harry Styles was lying full along the length of Nick’s back, his cock, carefully condomed and lubed, lying along the crease of Nick’s arse. Nick groaned a little.

‘I’ve got to go radio,’ he whined. 

Maybe the whining would put Harry off, he hoped. But his unhelpful arse pushed happily against Harry’s cock, making it slip further between his cheeks.

‘Fuck the radio,’ Harry murmured into Nick’s ear as he pulled back to lodge the tip of his cock against Nick’s hole and started nudging inside. Three, four, then he was sliding in, pretty easy – he’d overlubed slightly, as per – and any comeback Nick had was caught in his throat at the feeling of Harry inside him again. The stretch was nice, but he wasn’t in very far because of the angle, and the tip of his cock felt like a finger waving vaguely about, rather than something filling him. It was too slick and there wasn’t enough friction. _Ooh, changed your tune now, haven’t you Grimshaw?_ thought some sarcastic twat in the back of his mind. He ignored it.

‘Darling,’ he said. ‘Light of my life.’ He slid his arms above his head and pushed back against Harry. ‘You used too much lube again.’

‘I didn’t want to hurt you,’ said Harry, rocking in deeper, making them both moan a little bit.

‘You won’t hurt me.’ Nick pushed against Harry again, harder this time. He held onto the pillow as leverage so he could arch his back, and Harry slipped in further. ‘Nnnnggg. Babes, I’ve had more cock…’ Nick panted a little as he walked his hands back to get onto all fours ‘...than you’ve had hot dinners.’ Then Harry snapped in all the way, like a pen-top closing properly.

‘ _Yes_.’ Nick hissed and Harry circled his hips leisurely. ‘Oh god that’s nice.’ 

Harry started to build up momentum, not so dainty and careful, shoving in harder. 

‘You know what?’ he said, pulling out nearly all the way. ‘I’ve had a lot of hot dinners,’ and slammed back into Nick on ‘dinners’. Nick groaned out some nonsense gargle and let himself be rocked by Harry’s thrusts. Harry was like steel inside him now, fucking him properly, slow and hard, one hand at the crook of shoulder and neck, fingers of the other stroking down his spine to settle on his hip. Nick let his head hang between his shoulders. God, it was perfect. Once you got him pointed in the right direction (ha) Harry really could give you the most unbelievable seeing-to. And now he was making those noises that Nick loved, high little sighs, like those lady tennis-players everybody got so up in arms about every Wimbledon. Nick didn’t know what their problem was - it was insanely hot. He could feel Harry’s thrusts through his body, in his chest, his throat – for all he was giving him, making Nick need more. His prick was heavy, weighted with blood and desire, needing touch like a drug now. Carefully, bracing himself against Harry’s movements, he tried to take the weight off one hand, and felt himself nearly over-balance. He settled back onto both hands again. ‘Haz,’ he panted out. ‘I need…’ and Harry got it. He closed around Nick's back, his hand coming down to wrap around Nick’s cock, stroking it, sweet, firm, rough, totally out of time with his shallowing thrusts. It was fucking glorious and in a few strokes Nick was on the sharp edge of coming.

‘I’m gonna…’

‘…come.’ said Harry, his hand speeding up. ‘Come,’ he urged again, still pushing into Nick wildly, and Nick did. It was sharp, almost painful and made his eyes water. His hole was clenching a little painfully around Harry and he felt Harry go still, then jerk, two, three, inside him, and heard him moan short, gruff moans in time with his orgasm as Nick pulsed out dregs of come he didn’t think he still had in him. There wasn’t much and what there was was nearly clear, smelling weirdly of antiseptic. He felt a little quiver of worry and thought, could you have too much sex? Was that a thing? Then they both flopped onto the bed. Nick rolled onto his back and looked at the ceiling. 

‘Ooh, simultaneous orgasms,’ he panted. ‘So romantic.’

Harry collapsed onto his front beside him.

‘God almighty,’ he said into the pillow.

‘You started it, Styles,’ said Nick. ‘I did say…’

‘Yeah, whatever.’ Harry’s face was squished against the pillow and his words came muffled out the side of his mouth. ‘Radio. Blah blah.’ 

‘Gaga, actually,’ Nick said because he was hilarious, and Harry sniggered weakly. ‘But yeah. Radio.’

Nick sat up, pushing a hand through his hair. Did it have come in it? Maybe. Shower. Then he’d have to go. He’d cut it fine a couple of times this fortnight already. He looked over at Harry who was peering up at him through his hair. Nick scooted down and lay himself all up against Harry and kissed him, sweet and long, both of them sinking into it easily. Then just as quick, Nick took himself away, leaving a last peck on the forehead. 

‘Gotta go.’

Harry whined and flopped his arm out across the bed towards Nick. 

Nick stood under the hot spray and tried not to think about what the fuck he was doing. Harry wasn’t just a kid off of the X-Factor anymore, if he ever had been. He was globally, stop-you-in-Sainsbury’s famous, and was only going to get bigger. He wasn’t free, and they needed to stop acting like he was. He wasn’t looking forward to going back out there. He hated leaving this way more than he should and Harry all mumbly and warm and wearing nothing but a sheet made it impossible. 

When he came out of the shower, it was, in a weird way, worse. Harry was fully-clothed and picking up his car-keys from the sidetable. 

‘I’ll take you,’ he said. 

They stood and looked at each other for a minute, probably thinking the same thing. It was a totally unnecessary offer. Nick’s cab was paid for, it was cold out, and there was a possibility they’d be papped at some point, either leaving here, or arriving at the studio. It was more of a hassle for both of them than it was a help to Nick. 

‘All right,’ Nick said, feeling like he was crossing some imaginary line. ‘Thanks.’

‘Cool. Meet you downstairs.’

They argued about Beyoncé all the way over and hadn’t finished by the time Harry pulled up in front of Radio 1. Nick knew he was about to do something madder than Harry’s offer to drive.

‘You’re wrong, Styles. And I’m going to have to prove it to you. You’re gonna have to come up while I do the show.’

‘What?’

‘They’ve got songs I haven’t got on my phone. I need them as evidence in my argument and you need to hear them.’

A slow grin spread across Harry’s face.

‘All right. You’re on.’

‘Let’s go then. Stay out of the way of the web-cam and be nice to my producer.’

He ought to have known Harry’d be a liability in the studio, fiddling with his equipment (oo-er), pranking him, then making up for Claire’s several heart attacks by asking some really intelligent questions about her job, and generally charming the fuck out of everyone and being the perfect-ish invisible studio guest. 

They went home together, Harry driving his own car and Nick getting a cab, which was the first time they’d deliberately dodged the press. They were too tired to have sex and went to sleep in a spoon, woke up in a hurry, both with important stuff to do that morning. Nick made toast while Harry was in the shower. Harry hopped about putting one sock on, while Nick fished the other out from under the bed and threw it at him. They’d spent thirty-six full hours in each other’s company and Nick still couldn’t feel that familiar internal twang that meant someone was beginning to get on his nerves. 

Nick didn’t feel like he was losing his marbles anymore. He felt terrifyingly sane.

 

_Summer 2012_

He gave himself up to it. He couldn’t be bothered to worry about the consequences anymore. It was what it was, whatever it was.

An impromptu gathering round at his. Harry hauled him up to ballroom-dance him round the garden to Kanye and dipped him so suddenly he had to grab onto Harry’s sleeve so he didn’t fall. There was laughter from around them, scattered _woah_ s and a ‘go Harry!’

‘It’s all right, I’ve got you,’ Harry said smoothly and did that laughing eyes thing he thought made him look hot (which it did, but Nick wasn’t about to tell him that). 

‘Bastard,’ Nick muttered under his breath feeling out-flirted. He played it up with an exaggerated flourish of his arm and Harry pulled him up and they carried on with their cramped waltz around the small space of the garden. A couple of glasses went down to muted cheers and they ended up in a breathless heap at the end of the bench. Nick was squashed against Henry by Harry sprawling against him. 

‘Somebody call _Strictly_ ,’ Alexa commented drily over the top of her wine-glass. Nick dropped his head onto Henry’s shoulder.

‘Excuse me. My career isn’t over enough for Strictly yet. Maybe in another couple of years, when my listeners are down to me and Finchy’s mums and seventy-year-old 1D fans.’

Henry chuckled and Nick felt an elbow in his side, but Harry didn’t have the energy to put any real power into it. Nick pushed back lazily and they lay there for a while, breathing. The thought _I’m happy_ crossed Nick’s mind and was gone. Then Aimee came out into the garden with a drink for each of them. 

‘Cheers, doll,’ Nick said.

‘Thanks,’ said Harry.

‘You’re welcome, Henry Stars,’ she said, and ruffled his hair.

~

A weekday morning, far too early. Harry sat on a stool at the kitchen-counter, watching Nick sleepily. Nick couldn’t keep still.

‘Why are we up so early?’

‘Listening to Moylesy!’ Nick said, stabbing the ‘on’ button on the kitchen radio.

He didn’t know why he didn’t just tell Harry himself. It wasn’t as if Harry was going to ring _The Sun_ ’s media desk the second he heard. But he didn’t usually talk to Harry about his job and this was big. What if he didn’t care or didn’t get it? What if he thought Nick was just showing off? 

‘We always listen to Moylsey,’ said Harry yawning, leafing through yesterday’s paper. ‘But _later_.’

_…and I’ll be making my announcement after the news…_

Harry looked up vaguely. ‘Wha’ announcement?’

‘I don’t know!’ said Nick, feeling slightly mad. ‘Let’s just listen, shall we?’

Harry frowned and went back to the paper. ‘If you’re gonna be weird and make me get up at dark o’clock in the morning the least you could do is make me coffee.’

Nick went over to the kettle and shook it pacifyingly at Harry and filled it at the tap. Why was the news still on? Tina seemed to be going on about the shootings in the Alps for _hours_. He overfilled the kettle and had to slosh some of the water out. He clicked it carefully onto its base. Oh god, at last, the sport. Not long now. 

‘Hey, that Fabregas is…’ Harry mused, but Nick interrupted him. 

‘Shh, listen,’ he said.

_‘Thank you, Tina.'_ Chris was saying. _'So, I have an announcement to make. I have my announcement to make, and I am now going to make my announcement, thank you very much.’_

Then he started a little ramble about wanting to do the breakfast show since he was a kid (was it a requirement of the job? wondered Nick. Did it have to go on your CV that you’d wanted to do the breakfast show since you were eleven?), and what a great time he’d had doing it. Nick was holding onto the kettle as if it was the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth. He’d forgotten to switch it on. Harry had stopped leafing through the paper and was listening properly now, cheek resting on his hand. It occurred to Nick that this was one of the things he loved about radio. The way it could make you stop what you were doing and just listen.

‘Is he...?’

Nick raised his finger to his lips and Harry sat up a bit straighter. Chris’s voice seemed to fill the whole kitchen as they both listened quietly. By the time Chris said ‘We’re going to leave the Breakfast Show,’ Harry had pretty much worked it out, but he still murmured ‘Bloody hell.’ So, clearly, he got that this was a big deal. Then as Chris talked about the last couple of months and how Radio 1 could get in whoever they wanted to fill his shoes, Harry started looking properly awake. 

‘Oh wow. So who’s gonna replace him? Maybe it’ll be Scott. What do you think? Or, oh!’ Harry looked at Nick. ‘Do you know already? Ooh, insider info. Come on, tell us!’

Nick didn’t trust himself to speak. He shook his head and made a strange peeping noise he hoped Harry would take as a ‘no.’

‘God, you are being so weird. What’s the matter?’ then as soon as he said it, it was like he’d heard himself. His eyes narrowed. 

‘You _do_ know who it is.’

‘Um,’ Nick managed. He’d let go of the kettle and had his arms folded tight in front of him instead, and was biting his lip. He opened his eyes wide as if he could somehow get the information through them to Harry without speaking. Fucking hell, what _was_ the matter with him? Harry was staring at him. Cogs were definitely turning.

‘Hang on a sec,’ he said slowly. ‘You went for that meeting with big boss Ben yesterday.’

Nick nodded. 

‘And you’ve been really weird. Actually, no,’ Harry corrected himself. ‘You’ve been really _hyper_.’ Harry’s mouth began to spread into a slow grin. ‘All yesterday, and last night.’

Nick nodded again and began to match Harry’s smile tooth-for-tooth. They grinned at each other for a bit.

‘It’s you,’ Harry said finally. ‘It’s you isn’t it?’

‘Yeah,’ Nick said, his voice coming out in a raspy whisper. 

‘Fucking _hell_ , Grimmy,’ he said. ‘That is siiiiiick.’

Then he got up and came over and gave Nick a crushing hug. Nick’s heart was beating like it had when he’d first kissed Harry, when they’d first been papped together, flashes blinding them, when they’d first fucked.

‘God, it’s amazing,’ Harry said. ‘I feel like... I feel _proud_ of you.’ He drew back and looked at Nick curiously. ‘Is that weird?’

‘Little bit, yeah,’ said Nick, finding his voice from somewhere, pulling his face into a look. ‘What are you, my grampy?’ 

‘When do they make your announcement?’ 

‘Um, after Moylsey’s show I think,’ he said, voice rough. ‘First Newsbeat after that.’

They made coffee finally and went back to bed to wait for the news to break. They gossiped about the staff changes at Radio 1 until just after half-ten when Nick’s phone began to ring. It didn’t stop for the next month. 

 

_Autumn 2012_

Harry pressed Nick against the just-closed front-door of his flat, heavy with eighteen years’ worth of muscle and energy. Nick’s jaw felt like it was about to dislocate but he still couldn’t kiss Harry wide enough, deep enough. They hadn’t seen each other for nine days. 

Harry had cabbed it to the Groucho from Heathrow and they’d spent the evening carefully not touching except in the most nondescript way – a hug hello, sitting near each other – with their friends’ sympathetic looks making everything worse. Nick felt almost feral by the time they got back to his, and Harry’s smile had taken on a tinge of madness. He had pushed Nick clumsily against the closing door, his hands delving under Nick’s t-shirt, burying his face in Nick’s neck. 

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ 

Nick felt the words whispered into his skin as he grabbed Harry’s head by the hair and dragged him closer. 

‘Maybe you shouldn’t do that,’ he suggested breathlessly.

‘Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve been dying to do this all night.’

‘Mmf.’ Harry was suckling that point on his neck that drove him most insane. ‘No. I mean. Don’t come straight from the airport,’ said Nick, attempting seriousness, pulling Harry’s face away from his neck. A mistake. Harry’s gaze fell to Nick’s mouth. 

‘What?’ said Harry, with a genuine lack of comprehension. He plunged forward and they kissed again, Harry humming into Nick’s mouth like he was something delicious. With a supernatural effort Nick shifted himself away again and deliberately held Harry at a safe distance.

‘Maybe go home when you get off the plane. Or go out with other mates. Whatever. Just don’t come and see me if I’m out. It drives us both insane.’

‘But I want to see you,’

‘Yeah, but,’ Nick stroked a thumb over Harry’s cheekbone and Harry chased it with his mouth. ‘That’s all we can do. See each other.’

‘I s’pose,’ said Harry around Nick’s thumb, his eyes sinking shut. And he looked like porn and it wasn’t as if Nick had any pride left, or was immune to clichés, or anything. He dragged his thumb out of Harry’s mouth, the suction obscene and going straight to his cock.

What was he thinking? Now wasn’t the time for this conversation, when they were both drunk on wine and longing and unspent come. He let Harry gather him up and push him against the door, not caring that it was slightly loose in its frame and the irregular bumping noise it made as Harry shoved against him was probably audible down the hall. 

~

Nick lay on the couch with the latest _Heat_ , his toes tucked under Lex’s warm belly. Harry sat at Nick’s dining-room table with his laptop, doing “work”. It annoyed the shit out of Harry when Nick hooked his fingers into little bunny-ears around that word.

‘Ooh, look,’ exclaimed Nick. “1D Harry Found New Love” it says here. I’ve got 1D Harry here with us everyone, shall we ask him. Is Carol Vorderman your new love, 1D Harry?’

Nick watched Harry’s back, hunched over his laptop. 

‘Um, I think we might have left that Dior thing at the same time.’ Harry said without turning round. He was only half paying attention. 

‘Really?’ Nick said. ‘So is Carol Vorderman _not_ your new love then, Harry from 1D?’

‘No,’ said Harry, still typing and only half-listening to Nick.

‘Well, I’m sure _Heat_ would be _fascinated_ to hear about that.’

Nick’s not sure what’s got in to him – the devil, his Nana would say – but he goes on.

‘Who would you say _is_ your new love, Harry from 1D? Is there anyone? A nice girl tucked away somewhere? Or a _boy_. Perhaps it’s a boy, Harry from 1D. It’s all right, you can tell us…’

Nick was interrupted by Harry flipping the laptop shut (not quite slamming it, but not quite not-slamming it either) and swinging round to face him. Nick shoved the magazine back up in front of his face. 

‘What’s the matter? Are you bored? Should me and Lexy take you for a run round the park?’ 

Lex’s ears jerked at the word ‘run’. He lifted his head off his paws and Nick folded down one corner of his magazine to scritch his throat with his big toe. He retreated behind the magazine without looking at Harry.

‘No, I’m fine. Happy reading, thanks.’

‘Oh, “reading” is it?’ and although Nick couldn’t see him, he knew Harry was doing the bunny-ears thing now. Touché. He heard movement and Harry was getting up.

‘Come on, Lex. Let’s go for a walk.’ Harry grabbed the keys off the mantlepiece. ‘Coming?’ He stood over the couch, looking down at Nick, while Lex looked between them, confused that only one of his daddies was getting up, but eventually he hopped off the couch, because, you know, _walk._

Nick felt guilty all of a sudden, but not enough to want to go with them. 

‘No, you go,’ he said lightly. ‘I’ll get our tea on,’ he added as an afterthought. That should help with the guilt, he hoped. ‘Pick up some wine, yeah?’

‘All right,’ Harry said, bouncing the keys in his hand and giving Nick a measured look. Depending on the quality of the food, and effort put in, Nick thought he might eventually be forgiven.

When he heard the door go he tossed _Heat_ aside and sank down into the couch rubbing his hands over his face. Why was he being such a prick? He knew what he’d signed up for when this whole fucking thing had started. He’d signed up for something _secret_. It had made it fun, hot. He loved the feeling of pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes. He’d always loved having and keeping secrets, whether they were his or his friends’. Was this him maturing? He didn’t feel particularly mature. He felt petty and whiny. 

 

_Spring 2013_

‘I’ve only got a day!’

‘Fucksakes, Harry, I didn’t plan this.’

It was the middle of the UK tour. They were handling it, just. But Europe was next, and America in the summer loomed like a wall. 

‘I’m not saying that. I’m just pissed off.’

‘I know, Haz. Go and hang out with the boys. I’ll see you next time.’

‘That’s not for ten days.’ Harry’s tone was clipped.

‘You’ll live,’ said Nick airily.

‘And what’ll you do?’

‘I’ll live too.’

Then all he could hear was that empty electronic silence that meant someone had hung up on you. He switched his phone off so he didn’t do anything stupid in the next five minutes and put it down carefully on the studio desk.

~

Late afternoon, one Sunday. Lying together quietly on the sofa. No telly on, or even music. Harry shifting occasionally until his head was under Nick’s chin, and their socked feet were overlapping. It was getting dark and Nick knew he’d have to get up eventually to turn on the light, to get their tea, to call a cab. He tightened his arms around Harry. Harry let out a sleepy ‘mmf’ and pressed himself more closely against Nick till Nick could feel the folds in the fabric of his shirt pinch his skin. _Not yet_ , he thought. Just one more minute. Lying there, just breathing.

~

The sound of the slamming door echoed in his head. It was some time during the European leg, when the band had had a rare three days free and Harry had come back. It was worse than the last row. Nick might have said something unforgivable. He clenched his teeth, and he felt hot and red but not in a good way. He wanted to throw something, like he was in a posh soap, but there was no crystal decanter or ornate mirror to make a really satisfying breaking noise, so he found his phone and rang Pix instead. 

‘What are you doing tonight?’ 

‘Mm, I’ve got my friend Stan’s record launch, or the Diesel party. Which do you fancy?’

‘I don’t care,’ Nick said. ‘Both. Let’s get cunted.’ 

There was only a small pause before Pixie said languidly, ‘All right.’

They drank themselves stupid, then all the way back to sober again, and Nick went straight to the studio from Pix’s and did the show on an-hour-and-a-half of pickled, shared-bed sleep, and he probably smelled minging, but Finchy and the others didn’t say anything, and apart from making a lot of stupid jokes about being _out_ on the town the night before, the show was fine, it had all been _fine_. 

~

When Harry came back some time around Italy (Nick knew he was home because he’d bookmarked – he wasn’t exactly going to start following it was he? – the most reliable and least insane of the 1D update twitters) it took him twenty-four hours in the UK to contact Nick. Then he turned up on Nick's doorstep with a Waitrose bag-for-life sitting by his feet, jingling his car keys in one hand, like he didn't have much time. Ruby came running up and Harry crouched down and ruffled her ears and kissed her hello. (Nick had gone back to Battersea eventually, after Aimee had left, and fallen in love again. Ruby was some sort of dachshund-cross, nobody was quite sure.) Harry came in, Nick opening the door wide, and Harry nudging the shopping bag into the hallway with his toe.

‘What’s in there?’ Nick asked, kamikaze-style. He was pretty sure it wasn’t actual shopping.

‘Um, just some of your stuff that's been at mine for ages,’ said Harry as he followed Ruby into the living-room.

The break-up bag, Nick thought. T-shirts. His Scrabble board. A toothbrush. He’d have to make one for Harry too. He went through to the living-room, where Harry was sitting on the edge of the armchair playing with Ruby. He looked up at Nick. His eyes were puffier than usual, his skin was grey, and his hair was flat. He looked awful.

‘I can’t do this anymore,’ he said.

I can, thought Nick wildly. I can do the months-long tours, and the endless promo, and the tearing myself away from your warm body at five in the morning. I can do it, I can.

What he said was, ‘No, yeah. I know.’ Then: ‘I’m sorry about last time. I didn’t mean it. I was just pissed off.’ 

‘I know. It’s not that anyway. It’s everything. It’s not seeing you all the time, and then just seeing you for little bits which makes me miss you worse. I wish I had the balls to come out, but I don’t and even if I did I don’t think it’d make much difference. Not to us. We’re just in a stupid business.’

‘It’s not about balls, Haz,’ and they caught each other’s eye and giggled. Wow, way to make this even harder. ‘You know what I mean. It’s not just about you. You’re in a massive band and it affects everyone who works with you. I know it’s not just your decision. I never blamed you for that and I’m sorry if it felt like I did.’

They’d never talked about any of this stuff before. They’d just pretended it didn’t exist. But Nick had known that this conversation was always going to happen, and he didn’t know why he felt so much like a toddler raging with tiny fists against a world that was bigger than him. He was a grown-up and had been ever since he’d made the decision to stop going out and getting wankered every night when he’d got his first telly job. Giving up Harry was the same thing. He should just get on with it.

‘You didn’t,’ Harry said. ‘Or at least I didn’t listen to you.’ A wry smile.

‘Sensible lad,’ said Nick softly. 

Nick was leaning in the doorway, not fully inside the room. He and Harry looked at each other without saying anything for a while, until Ruby put a questing paw on Harry’s knee and Harry looked down reluctantly. He picked up both Ruby’s paws and shoogled them gently. 

‘Bye, kiddo,’ he said. ‘I’ll come and see you.’

Nick had been proud of how well he’d been holding it together up to now, but this nearly did for him.

‘Jesus, Hazza, shut up,’ he said, trying for Bet Lynch and getting Deirdre Barlow. ‘This isn’t Kramer vs fucking Kramer.’ 

A proper smile cracked into one half of Harry’s face, the dimple digging deep. 

‘I’m having a moment with Ruby, all right?’ he said. ‘Just because you’re uncomfortable around genuine expressions of emotion doesn’t mean you have to ruin it for everyone else.’

‘Ooh,’ cried Nick, his voice cracking a bit. ‘Genuine expressions of emotion? Get you and your fancy _py-kology_ talk. Been watching too much Jeremy Kyle, have you?’

The smile spread into a laugh, and Nick was relieved. There was still a distressing prickle behind his own eyes, but at least the waver in Harry’s bottom lip had gone. It helped when Harry got up and bent down to pick up his keys and Nick could turn to go back into the hallway. He took a deep breath. 

They stood awkwardly for a minute and Nick was worrying about whether he was supposed to say ‘thanks’ or ‘sorry’ or ‘see you round’ or what, when Harry reached for him. The hug was a fierce, Harry-ish ‘I’m going to be sincere whether you like it or not,’ deal and Nick gave in. They kissed too – they couldn’t not – a long, chaste press of lips that ended in a you-stop-no- _you_ -stop pushing contest which made Nick simultaneously glad they could have a laugh and keep it friendly, and also want to tear his heart out and set it on fire. 

Then Harry left.

~

Nick had spent the day starfished under the duvet with Ruby lying along his side, her nose in Nick’s armpit, and Lianne La Havas blaring out of every speaker on repeat. Some time in the late afternoon he’d rung Pix and said ‘Come round,’ his voice muffled by a mouthful of pillow. And she had, like the fucking trooper she was, and they got a Chinese and watched telly and didn’t drink because Nick knew if he did, he’d get properly messy. 

He threw himself, as they say, into his work. He was incapable of saying ‘no’ to anything. He was maybe a bit over-exposed, maybe a bit of media-whore, but his bank account didn’t mind, and he didn’t care because it meant he never had a moment to himself. It was all right. He was all right. 

Then some time later in the summer – he knew 1D were off tour for a bit – he’d bumped into Harry on Regent’s Park Road and it had sent him into a tailspin. He’d ended up avoiding his own house, napping on the sofas at Radio 1 after the show, and joining Scott or Greg for impromptu on-air visits, until Ben C started noticing the hashtag ‘radiogrimmy’ being tweeted a bit too often and decided it was time for a chat. When Nick had sat down and Ben had said kindly, ‘Is everything all right?’ Nick had very nearly broken down right there in his office. He’d wondered if he was having his Chris Evans moment, but instead of getting a teenager and a Ferrari, he’d lost them. 

Laura-May was his saviour then, and he spent a lot of time in east London, crashing at hers, getting wasted with her odd band of organic tattooed mates. And even when he went home, weeks went by with no sightings, and Nick gradually relaxed. He found out eventually that Harry had rented out his house in London. He became a homeless popstar, crashing at the boys’ various houses, at his mum’s, at Ed’s, in hotels. He’d known what Harry was up to from the papers: roughly where 1D were on their seemingly endless tour, who he might be sleeping with. It was always girls, of course it was, and he began to forget that a lot of it was made-up rubbish, and started to believe it. Nick had believed all kinds of things in the months after Harry left (because he _did_ leave. He fucked off round the world, didn’t he?), including that Harry had been being kind to him that final afternoon and actually couldn’t wait to get shot of him. 

 

_Autumn 2013_

A black tie do, he couldn’t remember what for.

Harry had come over to his table and given him a weird manly handshake and it was … unreal. This was the third or fourth time they’d bumped into each other and each time Harry had looked slightly different, had become slightly less himself. His face had sharpened again. He still had the hair, but it was cut differently. There was another layer of industry sheen over him. Nick felt like the old Harry ( _his_ Harry, he tried not to think) was disappearing. It made it easier still. He was glad. 

He was with Marcus then anyway. A boyfriend. An honest-to-god proper boyfriend that he could go out with and hold hands with on the red carpet, if he’d wanted to, which he didn’t.

Marcus was Ruby’s trainer-cum-sitter (and Nick always said that middle word with eyebrow-waggling emphasis. God, sometimes he wondered how he still had friends) and completely unconnected to anything media. He worked early mornings too, and Nick remembered the joke he’d cracked when he’d started on the Breakfast Show about having to go out with his producer because he was the only person who worked the same shift as him. Marc was away every other weekend on a course that was something to do with vet school, Nick wasn’t quite sure. He was also fit as fuck. 

He’d found Nick’s social whirl fun at first, then bewildering, and then he got slowly more sullen at how much of Nick’s time was spoken for by other people. Nick tried not to think about how the same sullenness in Harry had made Nick want to make stupid faces and jolly him out of it, whereas in Marcus it just irritated the piss out of him and eventually led to the old, I-don’t-think-this-is-working convo a few months after that black tie do.

After that, Nick had come to the conclusion that maybe he wasn’t built for relationships. He’d felt surprisingly okay about it. He had his friends and his work and his music. It was enough.


	3. Chapter 3

_August 2014_

 

As Nick draws away he ruffles Harry’s new hair, short and unfamiliar against his palm. 

‘Look at you,’ he says. ‘You cut your hair and end up looking even more like a girl than you did before. How does that work?’

‘Dunno,’ Harry grins lop-sidedly, and passes his own hand reflexively over his scalp. ‘You look well though.’

‘Thanks,’ says Nick, and sticks out his hip in a swanky pose. 

‘Twat,’ grins Harry.

‘I didn’t know you were in the country. You said time zones…’

‘You thought you were safe?’ 

‘Basically, yeah.’ 

And then more people are coming over to say hello and Harry hasn’t seen a lot of them in ages and Nick gets kidnapped into doing a round of shots with Elliott and Theo and they get separated. 

‘Boyfriend’s back then,’ says Theo, eyeing Nick over his shot glass. 

‘ _Jailbait_ boyfriend,’ Ex feels the need to point out. This is traditional.

‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ he sighs dutifully. Ex and Theo both nod seriously at him, like they don’t believe a word of it. ‘And,’ Nick adds, ‘Under the laws of Her Majesty’s United Kingdom, he was always legal, so fuck you.’

‘Oooh, touchy,’ says Ex.

‘He back for good then?’ says Theo.

‘Er, don’t think so?’ he says, then catches Ex and Theo exchange a look.

‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ Theo says mildly. 

‘Just fucking with you,’ says Ex.

Nick knows. It’s a thing they do, and secretly he loves it. He loves straight blokes flirting with him though they might not realise that’s what they’re doing. He doubts Harry’s even going to stay long at this party, let alone London. He was probably popping in on his way somewhere else, some bar-opening or premiere or launch it’s a good idea to be photographed at. He’s done it himself tons of times.

He dances. He laughs. He grinds up against people. He sees the Glasgow kids talking to an A&R friend of his and congratulates himself. At some point he goes back to the DJ booth to push Manny off the decks and tell him to go and have a drink. He lines up tracks and dances some more and people pop into the booth for a chat. He thinks it’s probably 1-ish but he can’t be sure, he has his hands in the air like a tool, and he’s thinking that _his_ party is the _best_ party, when he opens his eyes and finds himself looking directly at Harry, who apparently hasn’t left, but is leaning against a pillar holding a beer and talking to someone who’s face Nick can’t see, smiling in what can only be described as a fond manner, at Nick. And Nick feels like he’s just been caught singing into a hairbrush in front of his own bedroom mirror. He manages to stop himself freezing in place and instead grins easily back at Harry before turning away to dance at someone else. 

But he’s lost the beat and gradually he lowers his arms and goes back to bopping gently. He lines up the next track and takes a long swig from his beer. He notices Evan, a new assistant producer at R1 looking cute and a bit lost, and drags him into the booth. Nick gets him to help him pick the next song and they peer at the laptop screen together. Evan says something vaguely amusing and Nick laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. And as he and Evan dance together, the spot in his field of vision where Harry was standing tugs at his gaze, but he doesn’t follow the tug once. He gives in eventually, but it’s such a long time later that of course Harry isn’t there anymore.

Nick gets drunker than he’d planned. Not falling-over-embarassing drunk, just the kind of drunk that’s totally taken the wind out of his sails by chucking-out time. The staff are putting chairs on tables, and Nick and his last stragglers are flopped on a banquette (which Nick always pronounces ‘bonkette’ because it’s never not funny). Aimee’s there, and Gels, and a friend of hers whose name Nick can’t remember, and Ben (not allowed to call him Plan B now he’s a Serious Actor) who’s usually one of the popped-in-on-their-way-somewhere-cooler ones, but who seems to have taken a surprising shine to Pix, and Pix has, even more surprisingly, taken a shine right back. Well, posh birds do like their rough boys, Nick thinks. 

And Harry. Harry is still there too. He’s slumped in a seat next to Gels and they’ve got their heads tipped together. He’s had a few drinks so his mouth’s gone all camel-y as he slurs out whatever he’s saying. He looks quite serious, and she’s got her listening-to-serious-young-people face on, which means she’s mostly just entertained. 

Nick is suddenly irritated. He feels like Harry has broken some sort of unspoken agreement. He’s not totally sure what the agreement is – We Solemnly Swear Not To Spend More Than Half an Hour In The Same Room As Each Other? – but whatever it is Harry’s broken it.

The bar-staff are gradually getting nearer to their table and Nick knows it’s time to go. He goes over to say bye and thanks to them and when he comes back everyone’s discussing where to go on to next and cabs and whatnot. 

‘I think I’m done guys,’ he says yawning, tugging a hand through his limp hair. There’s a chorus of disappointed _aaahs_ and _don’t go_ s. But Harry says, ‘Oh, ok. I’ll come back with you,’ and Nick has no idea what his face does because Harry blinks at him a bit, before adding ‘I don’t mean… I’m at my old house. I’ve moved back.’

Nick blurts out ‘Cool!’ before anything else more rude and inappropriate – like ‘Fuck! What?’ – can come out, and then they all pile outside into the arms of the few remaining photographers. They sort themselves into cabs, and they’re away. 

Neither of them says anything for a little while and Nick glances over at Harry. He has his head tipped against the window, looking up and out at the London sky. Nick doesn’t know how many cabs he’s shared with Harry over the years. Dozens, maybe even hundreds. This isn’t like any of those times. 

‘You’re back, then,’ he says to break the silence. ‘Had enough of being a hobo?’

Harry tips his head away from the window towards Nick.

‘Yeah,’ he says tiredly. ‘This is home.’

‘London?’

‘Sort of. One of them,’ he shrugs. ‘But I can’t stay in Holmes Chapel all my life, can I?’

No. No more than Nick could have stayed in Oldham.

‘Having a break?’ he asks, not wanting to fish, but unable to stop himself.

‘No, I’m “working” actually,’ and Harry hooks his fingers around the word, shooting a look at Nick. 

‘Oh yeah? And what are you working on?’ Nick replies. They snigger at each other and Nick feels something loosen in his chest.

‘Some new songs. Solo stuff. Sort of.’

‘Sort of?’

Harry shifts and looks out of the window again.

‘I’m working with people.’

‘ _People? Stuff?_ So cagey, Styles,’ says Nick and just about manages to stop himself reaching over to prod Harry flirtatiously. It’s still second nature to him. Harry rolls his eyes and gives in.

‘All right. I’m working with Ed. He’s probably gonna produce it.’

‘Blimey. You’re gonna rule the world. His words, your face.’

He deliberately doesn’t mention Harry’s voice. It gets the expected reaction.

‘Heeeyyy,’ says Harry.

‘And voice,’ Nick adds, smirking. 

‘It’s top secret though,’ Harry says. ‘You’re not allowed to tell anyone.’ Nick raises one eyebrow at Harry, and Harry concedes.‘Yeah, all right. You’re good at secrets.’

They fall silent. Nick looks over the front seat through the windscreen and tries to process the idea that Harry’s back in London, back around the corner from him. 

Then the cabbie’s calling through the partition.

‘All right, lads,’ he says. ‘Who’s first?’

‘Me,’ Harry says, shuffling forward on the seat to guide the driver to the right street. Shortly they pull up outside Harry’s ridiculous house. 

‘All right, popstar,’ says Nick. He hasn’t used that nickname in years. Something about the house brings it out of him. Harry turns and grins at him. He knew Harry always secretly loved it. 

‘Yeah,’ Harry says, and darts forward to kiss Nick on the cheek. ‘It was really nice seeing you.’

‘Yeah, you too, kiddo,’ Nick says. He’d never called Harry ‘kiddo’ for any other reason than to annoy him.

‘Fuck off,’ says Harry pleasantly. Harry hands the driver a twenty and gets out. He waves from the driveway as they pull off, and Nick raises his hand in return. 

Neither of them had said ‘we should go for a drink’ or even ‘see you soon’. Nick’s relieved.

~

He has a mad week. He’s filling in for Scott, _and_ done his show on not very much sleep and a bit too much alcohol because there were an unnatural number of events he apparently had to attend. And as well as ploughing through the show, he’s had to fit in a meeting with Simon (a _meeting_ with Simon – that’s weird), and another one with BBC4 about the new big doco they’re doing on the history of British hip-hop. 

Nick’s swimming up through a mild hangover the Saturday after his party when he hears the door go. He pulls the duvet over his head (because who pops round these days? It’ll just be the postie, who can come back, or a neighbour, and well no, he can be doing without local drama right now, thanks). Then he remembers Matt said he might bike some stuff over for the show on Monday, so he pushes the duvet back and shambles to the front-door. Ruby hears and trots after him, parking herself a couple of feet away as he looks through the peephole.

Standing there, all stretched out like a rubber band around the circle of the glass, is Harry. He used to push his face up against it, grinning like a twat, but he’s just standing sensibly today, holding something in one hand, looking away at some point on the wall. 

Nick closes his eyes briefly and collects himself before opening the door.

‘You’re up early,’ he says, as he swings it wide, and Ruby rushes the door, immediately knowing who it is. 

Harry stands there politely like a visitor, Ruby freaking out at his feet. He bends down to scuff her neck. 

‘We didn’t get a chance to chat properly last week. Is this ok?’

He holds out what he was carrying, a Primrose Deli tray with two cups and paper bags.

‘It bloody well is now.’

He stands aside and Harry comes in, going through to the kitchen, Ruby tripping him up every other step. Nick follows. Once, he would have been making grabby hands and crowding Harry all the way. Now he says thanks and they stand a few feet away from each other at the counter, dunking their pastries. 

Harry wants to know what Nick’s up to, and Nick tells him about the BBC4 thing.

‘That’s cool,’ he says through a mouthful of almond croissant, tearing another chunk off the pastry at the same time. He always did eat like a half-starved hyena. ‘So is it like, a series or a one-off thing?’

‘It’s a two-parter. I’m gonna be one of the talking heads in between clips of noughties East London.’

Harry nods seriously. ‘Sick,’ he concludes. ‘Are you doing anything else, or is the Breakfast Show the only…’ he trails off. It’s obvious what he thinks, and had trailed off because he didn’t want to say anything negative. One of the things that had always made Nick weak for Harry – apart from the obvious – was his bizarrely enthusiastic interest in Nick’s professional life. At times it had almost been like having another manager. 

And he’s right. Nick’s bored. Of course the Breakfast Show has been the only thing he’s wanted to do since he was born, blah blah blah, and yeah, he knew it wasn’t the kind of job anyone did for the rest of their lives, but he’d never thought beyond it, until quite recently. 

‘Um,’ he hedges. ‘I’ve got this thing.’

‘Ooh, a thing.’

Nick gives him a look. 

‘It’s sort of a secret, actually.’ Harry raises his eyebrows, and Nick adds, ‘You’re not the only one, you know.’

‘Tell me,’ Harry says bossily, finishing his croissant and licking his fingers. ‘You’ve got to tell me now. I’ve told you about mine.’ 

The very obvious I’ll-show-you-mine joke casts a shadow which they manage to ignore and Nick is very proud of both of them. He clears his throat and decides to get it all out in a one-er.

‘I’m thinking of doing some stand-up.’ 

He’s looking down into his cup as he says it, swirling the dregs, not wanting to see Harry’s face. There’s a longish pause that gives him a bit of a worry, but then Harry speaks.

‘Fucking hell,’ he says in awestruck tones. ‘That’s brilliant, Nick.’

Nick looks up at that, and hates himself for how much he wants Harry to think this is the right thing. He used to say he valued Harry’s opinion because it helped him with the show, to know what kids liked and didn’t like. It was never just that though. He respected Harry’s opinion for no other reason than it was Harry’s. 

‘It’s…’ Harry goes on. ‘It’s perfect. I’ve always thought you should do something like that.’

‘Nothing’s solid yet. I’m just working on material and Simon’s seen some of it, and he’s sort of…’

Harry’s looking dangerously sentimental and moving towards Nick. ‘Wow, that’s….’ He’s going in for a congratulatory hug.

‘No hugs,’ Nick says fending him off. ‘Not yet. Nothing’s happened yet.’

‘Ok,’ says Harry meekly, putting his arms down.

‘You can hug me after my first gig. Actually, you’re not coming to my first gig. No-one’s allowed except Simon, who can sit backstage and make me feel better by being even more depressed and terrified than me.’

‘When can I hug you then?’ Harry says neutrally.

Nick is equally neutral when he says ‘I’ll let you know.’ 

He swallows down the last of his coffee and smashes the cardboard cup between his fingers. He starts tidying away their crumbs and pastry bags. 

‘Well, I was gonna take Ruby out on the Heath. I don’t know what…’

‘I’ll come with,’ says Harry without hesitating, throwing his own cup away and going to unhook Ruby’s lead from its usual spot on the hallway hanger. Nick’s heart sinks a little.

It’s drizzling, which is good because it’ll keep most people away and they won’t be hassled. Whenever Harry veers too close to Nick on the path, Nick moves away discreetly. Two years ago they’d have been bumping and barging each other, looking for any way of touching each other that wasn’t actually putting their arms around each other or holding hands. They puff to the top of Parliament Hill and look out over London, Ruby running in big circles around them. Even with the drizzle the view is … well, it’s the view from Parliament Hill. It’s one of Nick’s favourite things in the world.

‘I missed this,’ says Harry.

‘The lovely weather?’

Harry elbows Nick. They look at the view in silence for a little while until Harry speaks again.

‘I meant it the other night, Nick. It’s really nice seeing you. I want to be proper friends.’

Nick bursts out laughing and manages to spin it as a laugh of delight at Harry’s wonderful idea. 

‘Yeah,’ he says, high-pitched in the way people are when they have to lie at short notice. ‘Of course we should,’ and by some miracle, Harry seems to believe him. They make a full circuit of the Heath while they catch up. Harry wants to know what’s going on with all the old crew, the breakfast kids, and Aimee and Pixie and everyone; Nick hears about the boys and Anne and Gemma, Lou and Tom. They end up back at Harry’s car (he’s going into town to meet Ed.) Harry nuzzles Ruby, and before Nick can move away, he leans in for a hug. 

‘I’ll call you in the week,’ Harry says and Nick’s immediate impulse is to say, ‘Don’t,’ but that would sound ridiculous and possibly rude, so he doesn’t. He waves Harry off, winding Ruby’s lead too tightly round his other hand, then walks home, his collar turned up against the rain. If Harry calls, he’ll blow him off with some excuse. 

It hasn’t taken long – a couple of hours in Harry’s company – but it’s enough for Nick to know that he is still wretchedly in love with him. 

~

Harry does call but Nick lets it go to voicemail.

‘Hey, it’s me,’ he hears. ‘Fancy dinner? Give me a call. ‘kay... Bye.’

Eventually Nick texts, ‘Sorry. Can’t this week. Snowed under. See you soon tho!’, deleting and retyping the exclamation mark about thirty-seven times because he can’t decide whether it sounds too obviously fake. He knows he’s being a coward. He can’t spend the rest of his life dodging calls and hiding behind dustbins. He’s going to have to talk to Harry, and try to do it while keeping at least some of his dignity intact.

 _Good luck with that_ , he hears in Matt’s sardonic tones.

Nick’s in the last half-hour of his Wednesday show, and Fearne’s just blown in from her own pre-show meeting when there’s a call from reception. 

‘You’ve got a visitor,’ says Rachael. She sounds weirdly pent-up, like she’s about to start giggling any second. She’s not usually this coy. Nick doesn’t feel good about this.

‘Oh, yeah?’ says Nick, matching her tone anyway. It’s not her fault. She’s not to know. 

‘An old friend of yours,’ she says, and then she gives in and starts giggling. Nick hears a male voice in the background and his bad feeling is confirmed. There was only one person who could make Rachael lose her composure like this. 

‘Shall I send him up?’ Rachael asks, her giggles subsiding and getting her professionalism back.

Nick holds onto his grin. 

‘Yeah,’ he says, skidding up an octave in the middle of the word, giving it about five syllables. Harry slouches into the studio a few minutes later, a sheepish grin on his face. 

‘Hiya,’ he says generally to the room, but his gaze comes to rest on Nick. His hands are shoved into the pockets of a black jacket and a messenger bag is slung across his chest. His collar’s turned up and the corners of his lapels come up to his dimples, highlighting their presence to anyone who might have missed them. Awful things happen to Nick’s insides. 

‘Harry Styles is here everyone!’ he says through his now completely fake smile. ‘Just like in the olden days.’ And they all cheer dutifully. He wonders if he sounds as unconvincing as he feels, but Finchy and Ian don’t seem to notice anything. Harry slumps down into a studio chair, out of the way of the webcam even though it’s not on – old habits etc. – and greets the flurry of questions from everyone. The record is ending and Nick pushes the faders down and starts bantering with Fearne across the desk. At one point she says, ‘I’ve been enjoying your guests this week,’ and raises her eyebrows and nods imperceptibly over to the corner where Harry is having a mimed conversation with Myra, the new social media person. Nick says, ‘I _know_ ’, witters on about Call or Delete that morning and gives a tiny shake of his head. He’s not going to start talking on air about his ‘friend’ who’s come to visit him in the studio. Whatever he said earlier, this isn’t like the old days.

~

They go for a drink, sitting outside in the sun. No sunnies because nothing screams Off-duty Famous Person like a pair of sunglasses, and also, because direct sunlight bleaches out everything it touches, they’ll be practically invisible. An ironic win-win. Nick points this out to Harry who laughs and starts telling a story about learning this lesson in LA once, with the boys. Nick looks at him as he listens. It’s been less than two years, but Harry has, very obviously, grown up. He has a poise and self-possession he didn’t have before. He’s been around the world and had lots of experiences and learned a lot of stuff, about the world, about himself, and because he’s also still very much Harry, he’s come bouncing back to London expecting to be friends with Nick, just like he’s still friends with Flacky and Taylor and all the rest. Nick waits for him to finish his story. It’s genuinely funny and makes Nick laugh. He takes a swig of beer and makes himself look at Harry. There isn’t any other way he knows of doing this

‘Harry,’ he says. ‘I can’t be friends with you.’

Watching the expression on Harry’s face change is like seeing all the colour go out of the world. Nick did that. Nick ruined everything for everyone by making Harry Styles sad. 

‘Why not?’ He’s genuinely puzzled.

‘Well, sometimes you can’t. You’ll realise that as you get older.’

Harry’s expression sharpens.

‘When I’m older?’ he says. ‘Fuck off, Nick. You’ve never pulled that before. What’s going on?’

Nick laughs.

‘What do you mean _what’s going on_? I haven’t got some secret agenda.’

Harry looks at him assessingly for a second or two. He’s squinting against the sun but a splinter of green still winks out from between his eyelashes.

‘If you’ve got a boyfriend, I can...’ he says carefully. ‘It’s fine. Maybe I could meet him even. At some point?’

Oh god.

‘It’s not…I don’t have a boyfriend, Harry.’

‘Then what…? I don’t get it. Why the drama?’

Nick shrugs and drops his gaze back to the knotty wood of the table. 

‘It’s not drama. It’s just…Look, Haz,’ he starts. ‘We don’t hate each other. We still talk, and we catch up when we bump into each other. That’s enough isn’t it?’

Harry looks bewildered. Nick doesn’t want this turning into a giant explain-athon, so he takes a last swallow of his beer (even though it’s still half-full) and gets up from the table. ‘Let it go,’ he says, not unkindly. There’s a line of puzzlement in the middle of Harry’s forehead and on impulse Nick leans down to kiss it. He’s not used to the short hair under his fingers. He can feel the shape of Harry’s skull, vulnerable all of a sudden. All those curls, soft as they were, were like a piece of armour, a helmet, protecting and hiding at the same time. Harry’s face is still upturned, as if waiting for some other explanation, some more words, when Nick moves away. ‘It’ll be fine,’ Nick says, before walking to the corner to hail a cab. He manages not to look back.

~

Everything’s quiet for a couple of weeks. Well, not at work – work’s insane. They’re getting ready for the Teen Awards, and Nick has to record his segment for the BBC4 thing, which happens over several days. He’s still quietly – admitting it to no-one – unbelievably flattered he’s been asked to do it. The producers are also looking into the possibility of getting an interview with Dr Dre while he’s in London, and have made noises about Nick doing it. Nick nodded calmly and said ‘Sure,’ when they mentioned this but privately went into meltdown and wondered whether he wouldn’t be a complete fanboy mess and they’d be much better off getting someone sensible to do it. 

‘Don’t be fucking ridiculous,’ says Fincham when Nick mentions his reservations. ‘Of course you should do it.’ Matt’s right of course. Which he almost always is. Another thing he would never admit, even under nipple torture. They’ll probably get someone else to do it, anyway. Yentob or someone off of 6Music. 

So work’s mental.

But Harry’s quiet. And although Nick misses him a bit ( _already_ ) it’s bearable. He’s even prepared to bump into Harry on Regent’s Park Road, or on the Hill, walking Ruby. He’s all steeled and together about it. He’s very proud of himself. But he doesn’t, so, you know, thank god. And work is his saviour again. 

And just when he thinks he’s out of the woods, that’s when he gets a text in the middle of a show one day.

_what if I don’t want to be just friends?_

Nick sighs deeply, and leans down to place his forehead gently on the studio desk, a fader knob digging into his skin.

‘All right, Grimmy?’ It’s Fiona.

‘Fine thanks. Just fine.’

He cradles his phone in both hands below the desk and stares at the message. He is so close to texting back _wicked. when are you free?_ but Nick’s not stupid. Harry’s guessed what Nick wants and figures a free shag wouldn’t go amiss, especially when he’s only just back in London and still doesn’t know that many people. That won’t last long, Nick knows. 

But then, he thinks, so what? Who gives a toss what Harry’s motivations are when Nick could get to feel his skin under his fingers again, taste his mouth, get to have him again? If that’s what Harry’s offering then halle-fucking-lujah and worry about the other stuff later. No?

It takes a couple of songs and some on-air blether, but eventually he taps ‘reply’.

 _that’s sweet, hazza_ he types. _but i don’t think so. good luck with the new song. i’ll play it when it comes out. see you at the launch._

There. Fond, but casual. No ‘I-can-never-see-you-again’ drama. Perfect. He presses send.

He’s expecting protest and argument, but all he gets is radio silence.


	4. Chapter 4

_October 2014_

The launch for the single is packed and raucous. Because Ed came up from nothing, and Harry makes friends like other people make cups of tea, the crowd is a bizarre mix of total nobodies – i.e. not Z-listers, but genuinely not-famous people – and dazzling superstars. 

Their collaboration had had everyone wetting their knickers with delight, and that was just the press. Sugarscape swooned, and the NME did its Billy Idol sneer and called them a ‘killer commercial combination’. They were going to be huge. Maybe not as huge as 1D, but still pretty big. Ed had written most of the songs, but their first single was co-written. Nick had the advance taster from the record company, one of hundreds on a mailing list (not from Harry, like he used to, he’d thought mournfully, then he’d pulled himself together). Even though the title and lyrics had given him pause (it was called _Hide Your Love_ and was very obviously a song about coming out) he’d loved it. He wondered whether he’d ever told Harry how much he loved his voice. He was pretty sure he hadn’t. He must have figured several platinum records and arenas full of screaming girls told Harry all he needed to know about his talent. He’d also worried about the song’s lyrics for ages and whether it was the right move, whether the public would be put off, and then he’d realised that Harry’s career was none of his business anymore, if it ever had been. 

They wanted to keep the launch as low-key as possible so it’s just in some basement in Soho. Yeah, right, good idea lads, Nick thinks. Ed’s surrounded, Harry’s impossible to get to. Nick gets a drink and goes to find someone else to talk to. After some shouted pleasantries with a few industry bods, he finds Annie at the back. She’s managed to find one of the few chairs in the place and is having an edge-of-the-seat conversation with some kid with a pair of headphones round his neck and a Macbook on his lap. She looks up when he comes over.

‘Hey, babes. Come and meet Alex,’ she says nodding over at her friend. ‘He’s DJ-ing here later. Say something nice. He’s bricking it.’

Nick leans over to shake hands and says, ‘It’s only Harry and Ed.’ He looks around himself theatrically and leans forward. ‘You can play anything and they’ll be impressed.’

‘Harsh words, man,’ says Alex laughing. ‘I feel better already.’ He puts his headphones back on and goes back to the glow of the screen.

‘Budge over,’ Nick says to Annie. ‘Let me rest me tired legs.’

‘No room, mate,’ but she spreads her arms, drink in one hand, and pats her lap with the other. Nick takes her up on her invite, plumping himself down carelessly.

‘Oof, you fat bastard. Have you put on weight?’

‘Dunno.’ Then he coos, ‘Maybe I’m pregnant.’

‘That’d be the immaculate conception, for sure.’

‘Heeeyyy.’ 

‘Heeeyyy,’ she mimics. Then: ‘Spoken to Harry yet?’

‘Hair’s looking particularly hedgey tonight, darling,’ he evades, sticking a finger through one of her curls. She tells him to fuck off amiably, batting his hand away. He’s glad she’s here. 

Later, the crowd thins a bit, and Nick’s thinking of going, but Harry seems to have disappeared. Ed doesn’t know where he is, no-one does. The cloakroom says his stuff’s still there, so he can’t have gone far. Nick could leave. He’s sure Harry would understand, but it feels wrong somehow.

_Feels wrong somehow_ , mocks his subconscious nastily. Nick tells his subconscious to shut. up.

Okay, so he wants to see Harry, because he’s got the feeling he’s not going to get many more chances after this. He doesn’t know why he’s feeling so apocalyptic about it, but he does. Maybe Harry’s text-silence had rattled him more than he wants to admit. He starts poking about: the stalls in the gents; the kitchens (Harry loves nothing better than hanging out with the kitchen staff at showbiz parties); an empty function room upstairs. Nothing. When he gets back down to ground level and rounds a corner, he sees a fire exit at the end of the hallway he hadn’t spotted before, and as he approaches he can see it’s ajar, wedged open with its own panic-bar. Bingo. 

He pushes it open gingerly. It scrapes loudly against the concrete floor outside, probably alerting half the local population to his presence and Harry too, if he’s out here. Which he is. Bopping the right toe of his £900 boots against the wall, fag in hand, and looking every bit the sulky rich teenager he isn’t anymore. He looks up when Nick appears and curls his lip.

‘Hello Nick Grimshaw,’ he says, a little sardonically. Harry doesn’t do sardonic very often.

‘Hello Harry Styles,’ Nick replies mildly. ‘What are you up to? Apart from smoking ineptly.’

Harry ignores the dig and shrugs. ‘Not much.’ He takes a drag on the cigarette. Nick realises from his movements – heavier and more dinosaur-like than usual – that he’s pretty drunk. 

‘Why aren’t you in there?’ Harry gestures with the cigarette. ‘Shouldn’t you be networking or summat?’

‘Shouldn’t you?’

Harry shrugs. ‘Don’t need to.’ 

Wow, petulant too.

‘Look. I was gonna go. I came to…’

‘Bored already?’

‘No, there’s just not much point…’

‘You could have come talk to me.’

‘I’m talking to you now,’ says Nick patiently. He’s not totally sure what’s going on with Harry, but it’s probably best to keep it simple. ‘It was insane in there, Haz. You were surrounded.’

‘So you’re going now.’

‘Yeah Harry, but I’ll…’

‘You’ll what? Ring me? Invite me out for a drink? Oh no, wait…’ he says with heavy sarcasm. 

And Nick’s heart breaks a tiny bit because Harry's right. He _had_ been going to say 'I'll call you'. He’d completely forgotten they weren’t supposed to be friends, and that they couldn’t see each other like normal. It had flown out of his head the minute he’d seen Harry, which he knows is why he made the decision in the first place. But Harry remembered and he’d made Nick remember too: he’d given Harry up. Again. It was his choice. 

Nick longs for him suddenly, as if he’s not standing right in front of him being a bit of an arse, as if it’s already some point in the future and he’s not seen him for months. _Maybe we can be friends_ , he thinks. _Maybe we can just go for a drink_. And if Harry wants to come home with him after the pub, maybe they can do that too. Maybe Nick’ll take what he can get. 

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s all right,’ says Harry, voice like steel. ‘I get it. I get that I’m just an embarrassment to you now.’

Nick’s blind-sided. This is new. Then he thinks madly: had Harry somehow heard what he said to that DJ kid? It was a fucking _joke_ , he wants to say.

‘What?’ he blurts.

Harry’s looking shrewdly at him.

‘You haven’t said anything about my song.’ 

‘I love it,’ he says simply.

‘Do you?’ Harry lopes over and peers at him. 

Nick leans back a little. ‘Yes, I do.’

‘No,’ Harry decides. ‘No you don’t. You’re lying.’

‘What? I’m not lying,’ Nick says, genuinely stung. ‘Why would I lie to you?’

Harry is visibly pissed off and gearing up to saying something he’s possibly going to regret. Nick wants to tell him not to say it, whatever it is. But of course he can’t and Harry just ploughs ahead.

‘You don’t really like my songs,’ Harry says. ‘They’re embarrassing. Cheesy pop songs. Bit of a joke.’

‘Oh my god, are you kidding? Since when have I been scared of a bit of pop music?’ 

Harry’s looking mutinously at him and though yes, he’s a bit drunk, this has obviously been saved up, something real that’s bothered him for a while. Anger lights up in Nick, burning away whatever sadness he’d felt earlier. Harry wants a row? He’s got one.

‘Okay, honestly? Embarrassed? How dare you. I’d play your song even if Radio 1 had blacklisted it, but they didn’t, did they? They stuck it straight onto the A-list the second it was released. Of course they did. You know why? Because it’s _really good_.’ He’s talking to Harry like he’s an idiot but he doesn’t care. ‘I’m proud of you, Harry, I always have been. Of everything you do. I’m proud of your honesty. I’m proud of the fact that you’ve let none of the mad stuff that’s happened to you turn you into a wanker.’ Harry’s looking a bit taken aback now, maybe even sorry, but Nick’s not finished. ‘I do love your song. I think it’s a great pop song and I love your voice in it. I’ve always loved your voice, by the way, in case you ever wondered.’ 

Harry is smiling now, a funny little lopsided smile.

‘When you can tell it’s me singin’ ’ he says.

Nick nods seriously.

‘Yes, Harold. When I can tell it’s you singing, I love your voice.’

‘You’d have been stuffed if Ed had been singing too,’ Harry goes on. ‘It’d have been _“It’s Zayn!” “No! It’s Niall!” “Oh, wait. That’s Harry. That’s definitely Harry.”_ ’

‘Hey, not fair,’ Nick says, smile building. ‘I _could_ tell, eventually.’

‘When you were watching the videos.’

‘Pictures helped, yeah, definitely.’ 

They’re both smirking at each other now, and their bickering is like putting on an old coat, and Nick counts it as a save, until they fall silent and Harry’s grin fades a little. 

‘So if I’m not some embarrassing kid you don’t want to be seen with... why don’t you want to see me? Are you pissed off with me?’

Nick sighs.

‘Pissed off? No Haz, it’s not… shit…’ He drags a hand through his hair. Maybe he’s not going to get out of this with any dignity intact after all. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’

~

They go to Bar Italia, coffee machines deafening in the background and neon bright overhead. Highlights of AC Milan playing some other team are on the crappy TV and no-one bats an eyelid at them. Double espresso and a glass of tap-water for Harry, black Americano for Nick. They hide themselves at a tiny table in the back, knees touching. Harry drains nearly the whole glass of water in one go before putting it down and burping softly. Then he drags over the sugar dispenser and up-ends it four times into his coffee. Nick makes a face. 

‘That’s disgusting.’

‘So you always say,’ says Harry, stirring the coffee. ‘Said,’ he corrects himself. ‘Say,’ he finally decides on.

Nick feels inexpressibly sad all of a sudden. Harry’s not built for this complicated shit. Harry just wants to love his friends and for them to love him back. 

‘I’m sorry,’ Nick says, realising it’s the second time that night he’s said it. 

‘It’s all right, Grimmy. It’s only a bit of sugar.’

‘No. I meant.’ Nick unwraps one of his hands from around his cup and spreads it into an awkward fan. ‘I’m sorry for all of this. That I made you think I didn’t even _like_ you.’ 

‘What else was I supposed to think?’ Harry says, blowing across his coffee. ‘You don’t wanna be friends wimme, you don’t want ‘owt else.’

His Cheshire always breaks out when he’s had a few. He gingerly takes a sip of his coffee.

‘I don’t mean to be confusing. I just.’ Nick leans his cheek on his hand and lets out a breath. ‘Fuck, this is hard.’

‘Tellin’ me. You don’t want owt to do wimme. But hey!’ Harry’s face lights up tiredly. ‘It’s all right, cos you think I’m great!’ He hiccups and puts the coffee down. ‘Thanks for that, by the way,’ he adds. ‘Was a nice speech.’

‘Welcome.’ 

Harry settles sideways on the chair, his back to the wall, eyes half-flicking to the football. He’s not looking at Nick now, which might make this easier. 

‘Okay. Here’s the thing,’ Nick says. ‘It’s really hard for me to be around you. _Because_ I think all those things about you. _Because_ I’m so proud of you. _Because_ I … like you as much as I do. Do you get it?’

Harry shakes his head, eyes still on the football. Nick suddenly gets the feeling he’s being deliberately obtuse. Fuck. Why had he thought it was a good idea to have this conversation now? At 2am, in the middle of the noisiest fucking café in London, with Harry not exactly sober? You really pick your moments, don’t you Grimshaw?

‘Because it was nice while it lasted,’ he says tartly, his patience gone. He can’t be bothered to be careful anymore. ‘But it was what it was. It was a fling…’

Harry jerks his head towards Nick.

‘It was not a fucking fling and you know it.’

‘… a hot fling,’ Nick presses on, ignoring Harry. ‘That was hot partly because we had to keep it a secret.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘But we’ve moved on now. Or you’ve moved on, but I still have stupid feelings that I can’t…’

Harry’s fully turned back to Nick now, football forgotten.

‘I sent you that text! I said, “not just friends”.’

‘I know! I don’t just want sex from you Harry.’ 

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he feels completely exposed. Christ, what did it matter now?

‘ _And_ it took you two weeks,’ Nick rants on, because apparently this had been bothering him too. ‘Ooh, spontaneous, Styles. _Eager_. You must really have wanted it. If it took _weeks_ to think you may as well fuck your old…’

‘Shut up,’ hisses Harry. ‘Shut the fuck up.’ 

Nick clamps his mouth shut, breathing hard through his nose and Harry’s eyes flash green and fully awake. 

‘You don’t know anything,’ he says. His mouth is working, tense. ‘I came back to London. I came out. I came to _your birthday_ for fucks sake. I thought that’d be enough for you to get the message, but obviously not. So let me spell it out for you, Nick. In words of one syllable.’ And he punctuates each word by poking the top of the formica table with his index finger. ‘I. Came. Back. For. You. Did you honestly not get that?’

Nick feels like Road Runner, treading air over the drop that’s just opened up below him. He’s going to look such a fool when he hits the bottom. 

‘I know I didn’t say it before,’ Harry goes on. ‘Which was maybe a bit stupid, but. You’ve just been so weird, Nick. Jumpy and ready to run off. Pulling away from me. Not even flirting, just looking bored and tired. I wasn’t sure of you anymore. I thought you might be angry with me. So I thought I’d try for what I could get, and it turns out you wouldn’t even give me that.’

Harry looks baffled and sad.

‘My cunning plan worked then,’ Nick says bleakly. 

‘Nearly.’ Harry shakes his head at Nick. 

Nick can’t take Harry’s expression right at that moment, and looks down at his cup, his fingers propped either side of it. He tries to arrange his feelings and work out what he’s thinking and fails. All that comes to him is that on a scale of one to incredibly stupid he’s broken the measure. Why the bloody hell Harry would want to be with anyone like that is beyond him at the moment.

And then Harry’s hand appears in his line of vision and gently takes hold of Nick’s fingers, tugging them away from his cup. Nick looks up and watches, strangely detached, as Harry draws Nick’s hand towards himself. He covers it with both of his – warm and dry, Nick registers distantly – and smoothes it between them like it’s a small animal. Then he turns it over and leans down to kiss the palm before lifting it to his cheek, holding it there. Nick trails his thumb automatically over Harry’s cheekbone. 

‘You fucking dickhead,’ Harry says quietly. They smile wearily at each other.

~

They get a cab and from force of habit they each sit on their own side, like they used to in the old days, a hand splayed on the seat between them, almost-but-not-quite touching. When they pull up outside Nick’s flat he sits forward with his hand on the door-handle and says to his knees, ‘I’m not gonna invite you in. I think we should take this slowly. So let’s… I’ll ring…’

‘I think that’s a crap idea,’ Harry interrupts gently. ‘I’m really tired. I want to come in with you.’

‘Um,’ says Nick, still looking at his knees. ‘Ok.’

They get in and say hello to Ruby. Nick leaves Harry to settle her back in her blanket and pads through to the bedroom and turns on the lamps. Harry follows, dumping his jacket on the chair in the corner and hauling his shirt over his head. Then he goes through to the bathroom and rummages in the cupboard where Nick keeps spare toothbrushes (and floss and abandoned shampoo.) After stripping to his pants and t-shirt, Nick joins him, and they brush together for a minute or two, catching each other’s eye in the mirror, as if they do this every night. Harry finishes first and when Nick switches off the bathroom light and goes back through to the bedroom, Harry’s in bed, lying on his side, watching him.

‘Bloody hell,’ Nick says, nervously breaking the silence. ‘Maybe we should just skip the next twenty years and get some twin beds now.’

Harry doesn’t say anything, just lifts the covers and looks at Nick, and Nick feels something powerful roll through him, something that makes him genuinely speechless. He gets into bed, and they lie on their sides, facing each other, a pillow each. They used to do this too sometimes. Just lie there and chat. It wasn’t all impatient grabbing (though it was mostly). Nick reaches out to ruffle Harry’s hair, running his palm across the soft brush, feeling it tickle. 

‘This is still weird,’ he says. ‘Does it feel weird?’

‘A bit. Getting used to it.’

‘When did you get it done?’

‘’Bout a month after the tour ended,’ Harry says, reaching out to stroke his thumb across Nick’s bottom lip. ‘Liam did it the first time actually. I didn’t want to tell anyone.’

‘Seriously? What did Lou say?’

Harry grins sheepishly. ‘She went mental.’

‘I bet she did.’

‘Do you like it?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, I do. Suits you.’ Nick takes Harry’s chin between his thumb and index knuckle. ‘You and your amazing face,’ he says, half-joking, half perfectly serious, like he always did.

Harry moves forward then and presses his mouth softly against Nick’s. Neither of them move for a while, just feeling it. Then one of them shifts a little, Nick doesn’t know who, and suddenly they swim towards each other across the few inches of space that separates them to hold each other and press their mouths urgently together and Nick is dizzy with having missed Harry and got him back and he breaks away, a little breathless, and drops his forehead onto Harry’s shoulder. He can feel Harry idly stroking the back of his head. 

‘Y’okay?’

He nods against Harry’s shoulder and takes a shaky breath. 

‘Just knackered.’

Harry gathers him closer and Nick burrows into him. 

‘Let’s go sleep.’

~

Light. 

It’s light waking him, not noises or alarms. 

Not blinding, but lighter than usual. In fact it’s as light as it ever gets in his bedroom, with the thick blinds. It must be the weekend. Sunday? Maybe. 

He’s lying on his back. He feels heavy, warm. He doesn’t move yet. What’s he wearing? T-shirt and pants. That’s normal. There’s something different though. Something’s changed. He’s not in the middle of the bed, he’s off to the right a bit. There’s a clue. He looks at the ceiling for a little while. Then he hears a noise, one he didn’t make. The door’s shut so it’s not the dog. 

There it is again. A long inhaling breath, someone sleeping. 

Nick turns towards the sound automatically and as he does, everything from the night before comes falling back into his head: where he was, who he was with, the conversation they’d had. By the time he’s lying on his side, looking at the dark-haired head on the other pillow, and the bare shoulders and back, he’s remembered everything.

Harry. It’s Harry. Harry is here again, in his bed. 

Out of rusty old habit, out of desire, because he simply can’t help it, because he can, he reaches for Harry’s shoulder and feels the warm skin under his palm. He smoothes it down the shoulder blade and inches closer, sliding his hand down Harry’s side, tucking his knees against the backs of Harry’s, feeling Harry move his body in his sleep to take Nick’s. Harry snuffles a bit, and Nick drops his face into the crook of Harry’s neck and breathes in. There was never a time when he was with Harry that he didn’t do this. It’s automatic, like breathing. He lies there for a little while, feeling how their bodies fit together, his hand resting on Harry’s hip. Harry hasn’t woken, his breathing still deep and regular. If he’s sleeping as heavily as Nick, it’ll probably take a bomb to wake him. Nick doesn’t mind. He’s got all day. 

He scoots away and sits up, dragging his t-shirt over his head and tossing it over the side, then lies back and slides his underwear off, treading it out of the end of the bed. Then he turns back to Harry and curls up against him again, feeling all Harry’s lovely skin against his, expecting to fall back to sleep. 

Five minutes later he’s still awake. And a little bit bored. He runs the tip of his nose idly along Harry’s shoulder then back again to the nape of his neck where he places a gentle kiss. There’s no hair to nuzzle into anymore – it had held the intense smell of Harry even after he’d washed it – but there are other nice things. Nick had never paid much attention to the bones at the top of Harry’s spine for instance, which he does now. He follows them down Harry’s back, dragging his mouth softly over the knobs and Harry shifts in his sleep again, letting out a small sigh. Nick doesn’t know why he’s doing this when Harry can’t feel it. Is he trying to wake him? Probably. _Sorry Harry_ , Nick thinks. 

He also just – he hasn’t had a chance to do this in a long time. He’s not sure if he ever has, so he’s taking it. 

He moves out from Harry’s spine to his shoulder blades, breathing in his skin, dropping kisses where he feels like it. He’s still got one hand on Harry’s hip, lying with his head resting on the other arm stretched above his head. It’s surprisingly comfy, and doesn’t require much movement. He’s going to have to shift down at some point though, because he wants to get at the two dimples in the small of Harry’s back. If Nick’s less familiar with the top of Harry’s spine, he is intimate with those dimples. He’s itching for a reunion. Meanwhile Harry shifts again, makes another noise, and Nick tries to feel bad for waking him but he just can’t. The dimples await. He starts moving down, pushing the duvet down as he slides down the bed. Somewhere around Harry’s hip he starts alternating the kisses with gentle bites – making Harry’s sleep-breaths turn whimpery – because he’s never been able to resist the plumpness Harry always has around there. It’s less plump now, but there’s still something to bite into.

Nick’s feet are threatening to dangle off the bottom of the bed but he doesn’t care because he’s found what he’s after and is fitting his thumbs in the dimples briefly before lowering his face towards them to feel them with his mouth. And judging from the way he’s pushing back against Nick and the noises he’s making, Nick’s pretty sure Harry’s awake now. 

_Ah, what a shame_ , he thinks insincerely. He nibbles his way back to Harry’s hip and starts making his way over the top, sliding his arm over Harry’s legs to stroke his thighs idly. He props his chin on Harry’s hipbone and sees what he can see.

Hi, he thinks. _Hi_. 

Harry is gorgeously hard, his cock swollen and almost swaying, touching his belly, and just as Nick’s contemplating exactly what he’s going to do with it, he feels a hand tangling in his hair and hears a long, husky ‘Mmmmmm.’S’nice,’ somewhere above him.

‘Hiya,’ he says, his own voice a little croaky from sleep still. He feels Harry’s hand tighten in his hair and he starts to roll over under him. Nick ends up lying between Harry’s thighs looking up at him over his unignorable dick. ‘Sorry for waking you.’

‘No you’re not,’ Harry slurs out around a knowing smile. 

‘No,’ Nick agrees. ‘I’m not.’ He dips his head to run the tip of his nose up the underside of Harry’s cock and Harry gives another approving hum. Nick shuffles his way up on his elbows, careful not to touch anything before placing his tongue hotly against the head of Harry’s cock, for maximum impact. He can taste the sweet tang of salt there already.

‘Aa-ah,’ Harry stutters out and Nick feels Harry’s hand tighten in his hair. ‘You better be going somewhere with that.’

‘Might be,’ says Nick, taking his mouth away and moving further up. ‘Might just tongue your belly-button for a while,’ he adds and does just that. ‘That all right?’

Harry growls out a ‘no’ and Nick sniggers. Wow, what happened to his new maturity? 

‘Or maybe I’ll just…’ he says and moves back down to take Harry whole into his mouth and throat, all the way down, and Harry gasps, and all the stupid jokes are knocked out of Nick. His eyes water a bit, partly because Harry’s nearly taken his hair out by the roots, partly because he hasn’t sucked cock like this in a while and partly because, well, it’s nice. It’s really nice to have Harry like this again. He lets out his own involuntary moan and Harry pushes up into his mouth as if he’s trying to chase the sound and Nick has to hold Harry’s hips down so he doesn’t choke.

‘Sorry,’ says Harry breathlessly. ‘It’s just. Fuck.’

Yeah, fuck. Nick drags his mouth up, making full use of his tongue, and then sinks back down and Harry moans and pushes up again. Nick’s holding him so he doesn’t get very far, but as long as he can control it he’ll let Harry fuck his mouth. Harry knows it, because he takes his hands off Nick’s head and out of the corner of his eye Nick sees them winding into the sheets instead. They find a messy rhythm, and Nick thinks that the sound of Harry’s shaky breaths as he holds himself back, remixed by Calvin and set to a backing track would be number one in seventy-four countries for the next three years. He closes his eyes and sucks and listens. He spreads himself across the bottom half of Harry’s body, arms winding up his sides, knees coming up under Harry’s thighs pushing Harry deeper into his mouth because Nick’s throat is bottomless for Harry. 

Harry’s started on the high-pitched stuff when Nick feels a tug on his hair.

‘Hey,’ Harry pants. ‘Come up. Come here. Gonna come otherwise.’ 

Nick pulls off long enough to say ‘That’s sort of the point, Styles,’ his voice a little wrecked, and goes back to what he was doing. 

‘Nooo,’ Harry says in that five-year-old, you’re-not-doing-it- _properly_ voice which Nick supposes would be disturbing if he stopped to think about it. ‘Not yet. Want you here, with me. Want us to come together.’

Nick slides off again, Harry’s cock shining with spittle and pre-come, and says ‘Ah, that’s sweet, Hazza.’

‘Yeah,’ he pulls on Nick’s hair again, enough to make Nick bring his hand up to clamp onto Harry’s wrist to stop him doing it again. ‘So come here.’

Nick lets out a big martyrish sigh and starts crawling up Harry until he’s caging him on all fours. Harry pushes his hips up towards Nick and their cocks brush lightly against each other, sparking.

‘Here,’ Harry insists, making it into two separate words. _Hee. Yer_.

‘Needy,’ scolds Nick. 

‘Yeah, I am,’ says Harry feelingly. ‘I haven’t had you in so long. Fucking _give_.’ He grabs at Nick’s hips, pulling him down.

‘Aw, babes,’ Nick says lowering himself, his necklace swinging and brushing against Harry’s chest. ‘When you put it like that.’ But 'that' trails off into an ‘…aaah,’ as his cock slides against Harry’s, and he thrusts reflexively while Harry grabs Nick’s arse and pushes up against him. God, young Styles has the best ideas sometimes.

‘Mmm, yeah,’ Harry murmurs as Nick sinks between Harry’s thighs and ruts helplessly against him. He props himself on his forearms and drops his face down to Harry’s, their mouths coming together open, smash bang, teeth pinching, tongues deep inside, matching their thrusts, doing what their bodies should be doing, and right then Nick can’t wait to fuck Harry, the thought giving an extra roll to his thrusts making them both moan. They have to do this first though, come and come quickly, as it’s not gonna be long for either of them and they can’t waste something as logistically complicated as fucking on something this frantic and fast. Harry is pushing up against Nick urgently, making frustrated little noises, and Nick matches his rhythm perfectly, desperate to give Harry what he needs, and the rubbing is almost painful, but luckily there’s enough pre-come from both of them to slick their way. 

They stop kissing, just holding their faces near each other, transfixed as they move against each other. Nick can already feel his orgasm boiling up from his toes, and he knows Harry’s close too. As if to confirm it, he gasps out ‘Gonna come,’ his fingers digging deep into the tender flesh of Nick’s arse before his face crumples – mouth turning down and forehead creasing – and he goes still. Then it’s like his whole body pulses and Nick feels warmth spread between them, covering his dick. He doesn’t make much noise, Nick notes, just an effortful sigh, and that’s new, and Nick tucks that away for future reference. He shuffles his knees up so he can sit over Harry, straddling his thighs and using Harry’s come to wank himself off. Harry is idly fingering a nipple with one hand and pinching gently at his softening dick with the other, his face is flushed full red, and his eyes, when he opens them to look at Nick, are glassy with banked lust. 

He’s filth, and he’s Nick’s. 

His orgasm slams through him, making him tip over and hold himself above Harry on one hand as he strokes the last of his come out onto Harry’s stomach. Harry raises his fingers to Nick’s mouth and dabbles them inside his lips and Nick catches them, sucking them in as he comes down. He’s breathing hard and he sits back on his heels, taking hold of Harry’s wrist and sliding their fingers together. He brings Harry’s hand to his mouth to kiss Harry’s knuckles. Harry reaches up with his other hand and opens and closes it in a grabby little gesture, and Nick lies down beside Harry so they face each other, like they did last night, only dirtier, stomachs sticky with come, thighs sliding together, fingers touching faces, uncomplicatedly happy. 

‘Hey,’ they say. ‘Hey.’

~

The cold is getting sharper and the leaves are beginning to fall. Nick’s wearing a scarf and wishing for gloves, his hands shoved in his pockets, watching Harry throw a stick for Ruby. It’s a month or so later and they’re in Heaton Park, home for the weekend. They’ve just had lunch with Anne in town, who’d squeezed them both unusually hard when they said goodbye, and possibly had a shinier eye than was strictly normal. No mysteries who Harry took after in that family. 

Harry and Ruby hare about for a while before running back to Nick. Ruby jumps up and Nick bends down and lets her lick his face. Harry bangs his big football-manager gloves together. 

‘Freezing, eh?’

Nick straightens up, Ruby still jumping at his knees, and says, ‘Give me one of them,’ and reaches out to draw one of Harry’s hands towards him to start tugging the glove off.

‘Heeeeyy,’ says Harry, but lets Nick pull it off anyway. Nick puts it on (it’s warm from Harry’s hand) and beams.

‘Thanks, Haz. You’re a treasure.’ He pats Harry’s cheek with his newly gloved hand.

‘Too right I am,’ Harry says and catches Nick’s wrist to pull him closer. They kiss, Nick feeling the rough leather of Harry’s glove against his cheek. Harry’s mouth is whipped cream on hot chocolate, hot and cold at once. They pull apart and stand there for a little while, grinning at each other like fucking idiots. 

They walk back, bumping each other off the path, putting their non-gloved hands in each other’s pockets, and decide to go for a cheeky beer before heading up to Nick’s mum and dad’s where they’re due for their tea. They find somewhere near the park, a tired gastro-pub with big windows and sofas and bookcases. There’s hardly anyone in, which suits them fine. Harry spots a pile of scuffed boardgames on one of the shelves and Nick rolls his eyes when he makes a beeline for them. Nick comes back from the bar with their drinks to find Ruby settled under the table and Harry setting up the Scrabble board.

‘Jesus, you’re addicted. I thought you’d have got weaned off that when you were away.’

‘Shut up and play, Grimshaw. I won the dice toss. I’m going first.’

‘I’m not even sitting down yet,’ Nick complains. Harry’s already spelling out his first word. Nick looks down at the board.

‘D I C K’

‘Starting small, I see Styles,’ he says, taking a swig from his Budvar. ‘You’ll never get anywhere with a little one like that.’

Harry shakes his head. ‘You did not just say that.’

Nick puts down the bottle. ‘All right, let’s be having you. Time for the professionals.’

He sets up his letters and looks at what he’s got. It’s a dream come true. He uses Harry’s ‘K’ to spell out F U C K E R which hits a double-word score as well.

‘Right. This is _on_ , you bastard,’ Harry says, wriggling forward on the sofa to hunch over his letter tray. 

Harry’s forehead creases as he moves the letter tiles around in their stand, glancing at the board every now and then. Ruby shifts restlessly at his feet and he reaches down to scratch her neck. He picks up his bottle to take a drink and looks up, catching Nick watching him. 

'I love you,' Nick says. He thought he'd been going to say 'Hurry up, loser.' 

Harry pauses with his beer halfway back to the table, then smiles a big smile at Nick.

‘Yeah,’ he agrees, putting the bottle down, and they look at each other for a little while before Harry goes back to his letters. 

Nick looks around at the pub. The barman is at the end of the bar, a paper flattened out in front of him, lime and soda sweating beside him; a woman sitting by the window with a pint, checking her phone; an old bloke, all red face and iron-grey hair, is staring at the telly, nearly empty Guinness in front of him. 

Nick spots a _Sun_ lying on the next table over. At the top of the sidebar on the front page he can see a blurry picture of him and Harry walking down a street together, the picture catching the moment in their arm swing where it looks like they’re holding hands, with the headline ‘Harry Back With Old Flame?’. For a minute he can’t even think when the picture might have been taken, then he remembers – last Thursday, Gloucester Avenue. He thinks about pointing it out to Harry and then doesn’t. He thinks about them kissing in the park and wonders if there were any paps out there, freezing in their cars with their elephant-gun lenses who caught them, or even just some twat with a smartphone and a Twitter account. Good luck to them, thinks Nick, and takes another sip of his beer, and watches Harry spell out his next word on the board.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank yous are due. To junkshop_disco for the lovely feedback and for giving me homeless Nick on the Radio 1 sofas, as well as spamming me with videos and general obssessing over Nick and Harry. Thank you also to the amazing and brilliant Tarteaucitron for beta-duties (almost) beyond the call of fandom. And also to LJ/DW folks for tolerating my intermittent whining about this fic, and the occasional Nick/Harry-related mental breakdown. 
> 
> A final note. For the first time ever, I didn’t want to post a fic, not because I felt it was bad or unfinished, but because I didn’t want to let the characters go. I feel a real wrench saying goodbye to this Nick and Harry. I’ve had such a lovely time with them, even though I put them through the wringer a bit. Sorry guys, and bye.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] There is No Downtime](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093187) by [greedy_dancer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greedy_dancer/pseuds/greedy_dancer)




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